


Walking the Baseline

by LetItRaines



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Sports, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Secret Relationship, Tennis, Unplanned Pregnancy, a collection of one shots, in the Walking the Baseline universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:22:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 35,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26087131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LetItRaines/pseuds/LetItRaines
Summary: They're coworkers, in a loose sense of the word. They have the same job, a lot of the same sponsors, and they both have the same goal: to win. What neither of them is looking for is a public relationship, but after one things leads to another, they might just be heading that way.There are secrets and personal lives and a lot more at risk than simply losing a tennis match, but as most know, Killian Jones and Emma Swan hate to lose.(A collection of one-shots in the Walking the Baseline universe from before and after the 2016 Olympic games from the original one-shot.)
Relationships: Captain Hook | Killian Jones/Emma Swan
Comments: 153
Kudos: 237





	1. Chapter One: 2016

**Author's Note:**

> If this story seems familiar, good. That means you guys are reading my "If You Ask Nicely" collection of prompts and one-shots! 😘 I wasn't 100% sure how to go about posting this since I did post the original in that collection, but I decided to do a collection of one-shots in that universe as its own separate collection. I figured I needed to repost the original and then I'll add the others in chapters after that. 
> 
> This first chapter is the original one shot, based in 2016, and the others will cover the years of 2012 - 2016 and maybe some time after that to show you snapshots of how everything has developed to get to this point! I promise it'll be fun even if you know the (possible) ending! 
> 
> Thank you all for your kindness and enthusiasm always!

**2016.**

“My legs feel like jelly,” Emma sighs as she sinks into an ice bath. It’s never pleasant, and it may not even help, but it makes her feel better every time. “Like, I don’t think I’m going to be able to walk when I get out of here. I don’t think I can even stand now.”

“You say that after every long match,” David tells her, clicking away at his iPad. There’s no doubt he’s studying her stats and about to pick her apart in a friendly yet incredibly harsh way that is a David trademark. “Is your shoulder okay? Your first serve percentage was up, but your speed was down.”

Yep. He’s so predictable. She knew that was coming the moment she decided to change the speed on her serves.

“I’m fine. I’m tired. I mean, shit, David. It’s like the tour is trying to ruin our bodies. My last two-week break was when? March? It’s almost August, and it’s not going to stop there.”

“You’ve made it before. You can do it again.”

“That’s not encouraging.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“I want you to tell me that I don’t have to do this.”

  
  
David looks up from his iPad, brow raised, and she knows she’s not going to get the answer she wants. He doesn’t tell her she can quit unless they’re in a heated argument after disagreeing on her service motion or her footwork, which will always be her downfall when she’s exhausted, or any other aspect of her game. That’s what happens when your coach is not only your coach but also your older brother.

“I’m not going to say that. You’re in the quarterfinals. You play against Svitolina, who you have an excellent record against, and then in the semis, it could go either way with French or Stephens. That’s who we’re worried about. We’re not thinking about the finals until we’re in the finals.”

  
  
“I’m not thinking about _just_ the finals. I’m thinking about the fact that I played Madrid, Rome, Roland Garros, Eastbourne, Wimbledon, Washington, _here_. And now I’m supposed to fly to Rio for the Olympics, then fly to Cincinnati, and then New York. And after New York, we almost immediately fly to Beijing, and it doesn’t stop. I get, what? A month and a half off, but it’s not really off time because we spend that time fixing everything for next season. The only way I get a break is if I lose or I get injured, and I don’t want either of those things.”

Emma’s chest heaves as she finishes speaking, the words flying out faster than her mind can come up with them as she runs through her tournament schedule, and David doesn’t blink. He stares at her like he always does, and sometimes she swears it’s like staring at a male version of herself. And she knows what’s coming. She always does. David never got to play past college, the professional circuit too much for his body, and he always pulls the card of how much he would give to be playing right now, to be in her position. She gets it. If she was in his position, she would do the same thing, but right now, all she really wants is to cry.

“You have worked too hard to quit, Emma,” David sighs, giving her a patented big-brother condescending stare. “You are not going to quit. I know this part of the season is rough, but you push through it every year. And imagine how good it’s going to feel when you have a gold medal around your neck or when you have that US Open trophy in your hands. You don’t get to play forever, and you’re the one who said that you weren’t quitting when everyone would have easily expected it. Do you want to prove them right?”

Emma moves in the bath, sinking a little lower, and damn, her sports bra is going to be impossible to get off. Her gaze shifts from David to the TV where ESPN commentators are sitting at a desk, her Nike-approved picture on the screen beside them. They run through the stats of her match and then her overall career stats. She’s twenty-eight, which is apparently at the end of her career according to them, world number seven, which is also abysmal to them somehow, and she is not living up to her potential when she is a former world number one, six-time grand slam champion, and a gold medalist from four years ago in London.

She groans and tries not to think about how much she hates all the people who work for ESPN. They have their favorites and the ones they hate, and since she is not a mediocre American male or one of the all-time greats, she’s somewhere in between. Usually, she doesn’t listen to the comments, to the pundits, to the assholes. She tries to stay away from that because it will drive her into a deep state of negativity, but lately, it’s like she can’t get enough of listening to what people say about her as if it is going to give her some kind of insight to her game.

She doesn’t crave their validation, but maybe, in a twisted way, she does.

“She gave birth a sixteen months ago,” Mary Jo sighs. “She came back a year after giving birth. She is not going to be who she was before she had a child. The fact that she’s won enough this year to be in the top ten is amazing when she started with no ranking since there are no tour protections for maternity leave. She’s a champion, and sometimes champions struggle as they get their form back.”

  
  
“Sixteen months is a long damn time,” Patrick says, and Emma’s vagina would beg to differ. “She should be back to how she was or she shouldn’t be playing.”

  
  
“Have you given birth, Patrick? Because unless you have, I don’t think you get a say.”

  
  
“It’s my job to say what I think.”

  
  
“Still, I think – ”

The television clicks off, and Emma’s gaze finds its way back to David. “We’re not listening to them. It’ll piss you off. Mary Jo is right. You’re doing amazing, and I don’t want you to forget that.”

Emma doesn’t know if she’s doing amazing, doesn’t feel that way a lot of the time. This job is hard enough, to kill your body while also having the eyes of the world on you, but adding in a baby? It’s nearly impossible. A few other women have done it before her, not all with spectacular returns or returns at all, and she wants to keep getting better and play for long enough that Olivia will be able to see her mom play and remember it.

She’s not just doing it for herself. She’s doing it for her daughter, whose entrance into the world was unplanned, terrifying, and the best damn thing to ever happen to Emma even if she doubts herself in motherhood every day.

“I miss her,” Emma whispers to David, reaching up to play with her necklace, Olivia’s initials engraved in the gold circle. “I don’t know how I’m going to make it two more weeks without seeing her.”

“Do you want me to get Mary Margaret to FaceTime you with her? They’ve been watching your match at home.”

“No, no.” She shakes her head and releases the pendant, her resolve back as she inhales and focuses on her job. “Let’s do the rest of my recovery and talk about the match. I’ll call them when we get back to the hotel. I don’t want to get my mind too much out of the game.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

-/-

She wins her next match. And the next.

She loses in the final.

It stings more than her losses usually do, and there have been a hell of a lot of them, but she wanted to win another premiere event. She’s only been winning small events so far this year and making it to the later stages of the bigger events, but she keeps falling short when it’s time for her to push herself over the limit. Emma knows that her time will come, but she’s exhausted.

-/-

She flies to Rio with the rest of the American team who were playing in Montreal and Toronto, and she sleeps the entire ride down.

It’s the most sleep she’s gotten since she gave birth.

-/-

The 2012 Olympics felt familiar for Emma. The matches happened at Wimbledon, a place she’s known since she was sixteen years old and has watched on TV since she was even younger than that. Tennis players were isolated from the rest of the sports and events, and they all stayed in their usual rented houses and apartments instead of the Village or other hotels. Rio is different and completely unfamiliar. She’s staying in the Village, and while the amenities aren’t the best, the spirit of the Games are everywhere. She’s seeing athletes she’s only ever seen on TV before, meeting dozens of people whose names quickly slip out of her mind no matter how hard she tries to keep them there, and it’s impossible not to get excited to see all of these great athletes gathered together.

When she was a kid sitting in a foster home with David, the two of them wondering if they’d ever have a forever home, they would watch reruns of the Olympics on the TV, just waiting for the live ones to come around. It was an escape to get to watch people only a few years older than them doing these great things, and even after Ruth adopted them and paid for them to play sports, they never could have imagined being here.

Emma, sitting on a park bench outside with prestigious gymnasts walking in front of her, still can’t imagine it, and she’s literally here.

“Am I allowed to sit here or is that considered fraternizing with the enemy?”

Emma glances up and sees Killian Jones already sliding onto the bench in front of her. He’s darker than the last time she saw him in person, his hair longer, teeth possibly whiter, and he definitely hasn’t shaved in a few too many days. But the cocky, almost a little too arrogant, smile is the same, and even if she said no, he would still sit across from her. She knows him well enough to know that now.

“As far as I’m aware, you’re not playing mixed doubles, so I don’t think you count as an enemy.”

“Ah, but, love, Americans and Brits have been enemies since the beginning. That doesn’t change here.”

“Everyone else gets along. You’re just a competitive ass.”

“Indeed I am.” He wiggles his brows and leans forward, smirk stretched across his lips. “So, I was handed a bag full of Olympic-themed condoms when I checked in. Would you like to go try them out?”

“Shut up,” Emma laughs, kicking his leg. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Too many things to count.” He leans back and crosses his arms over his chest, muscles ever-so-slightly bulging underneath his Team Great Britain t-shirt. She’s wearing a similar one with USA emblazoned in the biggest font she’s ever seen. Not a lot of subtly going on at the moment. “Where’s Ruby? David? Any of the other Americans? Shouldn’t you all be eating or practicing or doing something besides sitting on a bench by the water?”

“Shouldn’t you?”

“Touché, Swan. Touché. Will and I were on the way to eat, but I saw you and got distracted. I don’t have practice until later. Rob is forcing me to give myself a break so I don’t exhaust myself after Toronto.”

“Well, you do have old bones.”

“Oi, I am thirty-two and at the top of my game. How many people can say that?”

“Anyone who is not an athlete.”

  
  
Killian shrugs and tilts his head to the side, rolling his shoulders. He’s right, though. Killian is playing better than he ever has. He’s always been good ever since he was touted to be Great Britain’s next big thing. She watched for years as the British media slagged him off for not having won Wimbledon despite having won the other majors two times around, but six years ago, he won after a five-hour, grueling match and fell onto the ground. The image was everywhere, and now, every time she’s in London or Wimbledon, that image lines the walls. It’s how she felt when she won the US Open. All of the majors are special, but winning your home one, if you’re lucky enough to have one, is something else. And now Killian is world number one once more, has won two majors in a row with several premiere events in between, and with his form, she can’t imagine him losing.

But that’s why you lace up the sneakers. You never know what’s going to happen.

She’s been around the game long enough to know that.

Killian too.

Their paths have crossed for years, mostly because they have the same sponsors and do a lot of promotional events together, but the more they both started winning, the more they’d see each other at tournaments and dinners and everything in between. It’s a busy life, and while there’s time to make friends outside of tennis, sometimes it’s easier to find people in the industry.

She’s not entirely sure she would call Killian Jones a friend.

“Have you eaten, love?” he asks.

“Not yet.” On cue, her stomach growls, and he smirks, not that he really stopped.

“Why don’t you come with me? You can sit with us before we take the bus to the courts for training.”

“What happened to fraternizing with the enemy?”

He leans forward and winks. “For you, I’ll make an exception.”

Emma laughs but nods and stands with Killian as they walk to the main dining hall. It’s packed, the room echoing with conversation and laughter, and Emma and Killian are stopped several times to take pictures and sign autographs, something she will never get used to, before they sit down with Will, Rob, and several other plays from all around the world. For a minute, it’s like they’re in their usual bubble that they live in for the rest of the year with only tennis players around, but then Emma sees Usain Bolt walk by and she knows they’re not.

This is weird.

This is wonderful.

This is almost everything.

-/-

The Opening Ceremonies are long and sometimes boring, and she hates the outfit she has to wear, but she doesn’t know if she’ll get to do this again in four years so she savors it.

She savors it all, walking side by side with Ruby, Ashley, and Anna, and she takes all of it in before her mind switches to work-mode as she runs through her opponent for her first match. The nerves have been pushed down in favor of the experience, but they’re back and in full-force.

She cannot lose in the first round.

-/-

She doesn’t.

-/-

She doesn’t lose her next few matches either.

-/-

Emma’s made it to the quarterfinals in both singles and doubles with Ruby after several days of long matches and struggling to see the ball – whoever thought making a fully green court with green side walls for tennis has obviously never played tennis, and she never wants to play on center court again – and she knows she’s one win away from guaranteeing that she plays in a medal-winning match.

It’s a relief and pressure all at once, something she’ll never grow used to, and as the sun sets and the village begins to get loud, Emma sits on her balcony watching the fountains in the lake light up. Ruby is off with Mulan somewhere Emma would rather not know about and will probably not be back to their room until at least tomorrow morning if the look on Ruby’s face was any indication, so Emma thinks she might get a little time to sit down and breathe for a moment, watching different events on TV. She could go watch them, but she doesn’t think her legs will carry her there.

Until her phone buzzes with a text that she quickly answers, and not three minutes later, there’s a knock at her door.

Emma quickly opens it, pulling him inside, and Killian kicks the door closed behind him as he cups her cheeks and kisses her, long and slow but with enough heat simmering below the surface that Emma knows there could be a promise of more later.

She’s seen him nearly every day for the past week, but she’s _missed_ him.

She’s missed this.

His mouth moves expertly over hers in a rhythm that’s been practiced to perfection, and she feels dizzy with his kiss and holds onto his hair to keep her standing up. The Brazilian summer air wafts through the room, coating it in a thick heat, but Emma doesn’t pay any attention to that as heat curls between her thighs, warming her more than the air ever could. Her legs ache from the match, her arms feel heavy, but Killian makes her forget those things as he lays her down on the bed and kisses every inch of her body, spending time with his dark head of hair buried beneath her thighs until she can no longer speak.

Until she can scarcely breathe as well.

She manages to laugh, though, when he pulls out one of the condoms that has the Olympics logo on it, and she and Killian makes jokes about it as he slides into her, a thick sheath of heat that she never gets used to. It’s slow at first, a gentle rocking that keeps her teetering on the edge, but their bodies are tired and worn, and soon, it’s a race to the finish line.

Emma comes in first, not that it matters.

(But it does feel good to beat him.)

(They’re both competitive asses.)

(Even when they shouldn’t be.)

After, they’re both slick with sweat that doesn’t go away as their bodies press together on the small twin bed. Emma almost wishes she had rented a house outside the village like David and some of the other coaches did, but she doesn’t want to give up the experience. And it’s fine, especially as Killian shifts behind her and lets her settle into him, her hips pressing back into his as his arm wraps around to rest on her stomach, fingers occasionally searching out for her breast.

Emma is exhausted, but this is the best she’s felt in weeks.

(She definitely couldn’t walk to any of the events now, and she did want to see Phelps swim.)

“You played bloody fantastic in your doubles match today.”

“Not my singles?”

“I played at the same time as you. I didn’t get a chance to watch.”

Emma hums and leans further back into him. She’s glad Killian did most of the work because just thinking about how much she’s got to move again tomorrow is making her sore. “I played well there too. Straight sets.”

  
  
“Atta girl.” His lips press into her neck, stubble scratching across the skin. “I’ve been thinking…”

“Oh, that’s always dangerous.”

  
  
Killian laughs but nudges his knee into her, which really only settles his cock between her ass, but she’s too tired to think of doing anything else. “I’ve been thinking,” he continues, “that I’m going to withdraw from Cincinnati and fly home instead.”

  
  
“To London?”

“To Palm Beach. I think it might be nice to have a calm week between tournaments to spend time with my girlfriend.”

“Oh really? You’ll have to tell her your plan. I’m sure she’d like that.”

Killian tickles her stomach, making her squirm, before he lightly pinches her side. “Mhm. I thought we might also like to spend time with our daughter since FaceTime isn’t cutting it for me anymore. I swear she’s grown three feet since I last saw her.”

“Four, I think. She’s basically a full-grown adult now with all that walking and talking she’s doing.”

“Has she said any new words I’m not aware of?”

“Nope. She still can only say the three.”

“Good. I’m glad I didn’t miss anything else.” Killian kisses the side of Emma’s neck again, and she twists around, wrapping her arms around him and pressing their noses together as she stares into blue, blue eyes that aren’t diminished by the darkened room. “I think we should bring her to New York with us. Hopefully at least one of us will be there for three weeks, and that’s just too long to go without her.”

“We’re staying in a hotel in New York. In two separate suites, I might add.”

“But we don’t have to.”

“Killian…”

His hand brushes down her side, warmth permeating from the rough fingertips, before it rests on her hip, thumb moving in soothing circles. “I’ve already called and seen if they could give me the Penthouse. It’s an entire floor with private entrances and a private elevator. Our teams can stay with us or they can stay in the original suites we were designated. I know you bring her with you when you can and that I sneak in visits, but I want to be able to stay with my daughter.”

This isn’t the first time they’ve had this conversation, and if she doesn’t say yes to it, it won’t be the last.

Things between she and Killian are complicated. Their relationship isn’t, not anymore. At first, she couldn’t stand him, thought he was genuinely this cocky asshole from the way he talked in matches and in off-court interviews, like he was God’s gift to the sport or something. Then they ended up both winning in Australia four years ago, and while doing press together, she saw a different, kinder side to him that she hadn’t previously seen when they worked together in Nike promotions.

Fast forward through a lot of early morning calls, late night rendezvous in their hotel rooms, and a heck of a lot of texts and FaceTime sessions, and somewhere along the way, the impenetrable Emma Swan fell in love with the impossible Killian Jones.

They kept it secret, the both of them knowing how vicious the media is to athletes that date each other, especially since Killian was going through a wrist injury that was somehow his fault according to the pundits and that he was getting hounded pretty hard at the time. They didn’t know if it was going to work, neither of them having stellar relationship records, but they figured eventually they would be okay with the world knowing.

Then came the positive pregnancy test, and Emma’s entire world shifted.

She was at the top of her game, at the top of her world, and as hard as it is for her to admit now, she didn’t want Olivia. She wanted to keep living her life the way it was. That was a possibility but not one she was willing to take, so she stopped playing but kept training as she and Killian figured out how they were going to do this.

They’re never home, rarely together, and they were both way out of their leagues. It would have been easier to tell the world they were together, that Killian was the father, but Olivia’s protection is worth more than their ease.

Now, though, looking at the crease between Killian’s brow and the sadness pooled in his eyes, she wonders if they’re doing the right thing.

“I know. I’m sorry. I – ” Emma’s lips quiver, and she nearly cries. She’s exhausted beyond belief and doesn’t know what to do, so she buries her face in Killian’s neck and wraps her arms around him. “Can we talk about this on the plane ride home?”

Emma says home as if they’re going to the same place after this. They’re not. But maybe she should listen to Killian and take the break she’s been craving.

“Aye, love, if that’s what you want.”

She nods and feels his lips ghost over the crown of her hair. “I want to lay here with you and not think about tennis or make hard decisions.”

“You want to talk about how bloody uncomfortable this bed is?”

Emma laughs. “It really makes you miss those awful ones in Paris.”

  
  
“You had to ask for a new one.”

  
  
“It was so worth it.”

-/-

They FaceTime Olivia in the morning. Mary Margaret has her in a matching outfit to Emma’s uniform, and Killian scoffs that she’s representing America instead of Great Britain.

Emma thinks it’s the best thing in the world, and it reminds her who she’s playing for.

It’s not for her country, not for herself. It’s for her daughter.

_Their daughter._

-/-

The next two days drag by and yet she has a difficult time keeping up with them. Her practices are long, recovery longer as her shoulders are massaged and legs are iced, and Ruby has to drag her out onto the court for doubles when all she wants to do is sleep. She’s not used to playing this many matches in such a short period of time, and while having Ruby on court with her helps lessen how much she runs, her legs are still aching.

She’s almost to the finish line. She can make it.

“Those legs are too pretty for you to be dragging them like that,” Ruby jokes as they sit down during a changeover in the third set of their quarterfinal match. Emma reaches for her energy drink and takes a sip before biting into a banana while Ruby shakes her legs.

“I can’t make them move.”

  
  
“Yes, you can,” Ruby insists. “You already won your singles today, and we’re four games away from winning this match. I will kick your ass if we don’t win this.”  
  


“Can you kick my ass if it’s already kicked?”  
  


“I can indeed.” Ruby pats Emma’s knees and smiles. “Come on, hot mama. We’ve got this.”

And it’s tough, but they do.

Emma and Ruby go through recovery, and when Emma checks her watch, she sees that Killian’s match is just about to start.

“Do you want to get a bus across the grounds and go watch swimming?” Ruby asks her as David massages her calf. It’s not his job, so he obviously can’t stop complaining about doing it.

“I think I want to watch Killian’s match. Can we get seats in the stadium? Is his box empty?”

“Do you think that’s a good idea?” David asks her as her muscle spasms.

“If we all go, it won’t be suspicious. He’s playing Sam, so they might think we’re supporting the Americans.”

  
  
“Aren’t we?”

Her eyes roll. “Not in this situation. Come on. Text Rob and see if we can get into Killian’s box.”

David levels her with a stare, and she knows he’s going to say no, that it’s a bad idea. But then he releases her leg and pulls his phone out of his pocket.

They end up going still dressed in their match clothes, and Emma puts on a sweatshirt, a cap, and sunglasses to hide herself as much as possible. She knows it won’t work considering she’s literally wearing the outfit she has worn all week, but she can at least try. It’s been years since she’s gotten to watch one of Killian’s matches from somewhere other than the locker room or her hotel room, and she’s missed the magic of watching him play. He’s fluid with his motions, even if they are slower than they used to be, and his groundstrokes are powerful from the baseline. She knows from the moment that she sits down that he’s winning this match. She can tell by the way he’s carrying himself and the determination in his eyes. She grabs her phone and snaps a picture just as he looks her way, brow raised in question but a smile on his lips.

-/-

Killian wins his match, and she finds him in the tunnel afterward, his team creating a wall around them, and wraps her arms around him, not caring that they are both disgustingly sweaty or around other people.

“I love you,” she whispers.

“And I you.” The corner of his lips brush against her temple. “You’re amazing, Emma. Bloody amazing.”

  
  
“You too, my love.”

-/-

Emma wins the semifinals of both of her matches.

Killian wins his.

They’re both playing in gold medal matches – Emma definitely brags about how she’s playing two while Killian is only playing one – and she wants to vomit.

Holy shit.

-/-

“Say hi to your mommy,” Mary Margaret tells Olivia as Olivia keeps smacking her hand on the screen. “Your mom and dad are there trying to talk to you, Livvie.”

Emma leans her head onto Killian’s shoulder as they both stare into the screen waiting for Olivia to move her hand. She does with some help from Mary Margaret, and then bright green eyes show up. She has Emma’s eyes and dirty blonde hair that’s thick and wavy, but everything else about her screams Killian, especially her smile. Emma has missed that smile.

“Hello, little love.” Killian waves and tries to get her attention, but she couldn’t care less. “Don’t you want to talk to us?”

She makes a noise that isn’t a word, and Mary Margaret sighs. “I’m sorry. She’s been asking about you two, but now that you’re there, she doesn’t care. I tried to tell her what a big deal the two of you were, but she doesn’t care.”

“I’ll have to tell her how incredible her mother is later. She’s going to be the first women to win two singles golds in a row as well as the first mum to do it. And she’s going to have two more medals than me. Showing me up in every category.”

“That’s assuming you win, Jones. I could have three more gold medals than you.”

“I do love a challenge.”

Olivia starts giggling, Emma’s favorite noise on the planet, and she tries to memorize it to keep with her always. She knows Killian does too.

-/-

Emma’s gold medal matches are the day before Killian’s, and she’s jealous he gets a day off to rest. He tells her he’s going to spend the entire time training, sneaking in and out of other events, and watching her matches. She rolls her eyes at his texts because she’s sure he won’t have time to do all of that.

And yet he does.

She sees him in the stands during her doubles match. Ruby points him out when they’re in the middle of discussing serving spots, and Emma laughs at her calling him “lover boy” in a horrible British accent. She always calls him a ridiculous name, and of the few people who know of Emma’s private life, she’s glad Ruby is one of them.

Even if she’s still laughing and double faults on an important point.

It doesn’t matter, though, because within an hour and fifteen minutes, their shortest match of the tournament, she’s on the court’s floor with Ruby sobbing because they won a fucking gold medal.

She gets so little time to savor it, however, because the medal ceremony happens so quickly that she can barely take It all in. She also has press to do, and David has to practically force her into the media room where she and Ruby are hounded with more questions than congratulation as they clutch onto their medals. Ruby handles it like the pro she is while Emma’s nerves start to get the best of her as more people start talking about what she has on the line.

To be the first man or woman to win two gold singles medals in consecutive Olympics.

To win another gold medal for her country.

To be the first mother since Clijsters to win a major tournament.

To win her first big tournament since her comeback.

To have the possibility to win another gold medal in Tokyo in four years if she’s still playing.

It’s a lot, and she knows it. She’s been thinking about all of it every day this week, and her track record of choking in finals lately is pushing at the forefront of her mind.

She doesn’t know if she can do it.

And yet she does.

She laces up her sneakers, pulls her hair back, and takes a deep breath as she blocks everything out of her mind except for her game plan. She knows how the game is played. She’s been playing since she was twelve years old, and even though that’s a late start compared to most people, it’s gotten her here.

Emma walks out of the tunnel as her name is announced over the speakers, and even though all she can hear is the cheer of the crowd, she lets her mind go back to Olivia’s laugh, Killian’s smile, David’s pep talk, Ruby’s ridiculous texts. She thinks of all the things that push her when she wants to stop, and she reminds herself that no matter what happens, she’s done her best.

She could have given up the moment the stick said “pregnant.” She could have packed it all in, but she didn’t. She’s here, and she’s better than any excuse she could come up with not to be.

People have tried to tell her who she is her entire life, but she’s pushed back and said, “no, this is who I am.” Emma still has to do that now, no matter how many times she has proven herself.

The ice bath in Montreal where she wanted to quit seems years away when it was only eight days.

-/-

Emma looks to Ruby then David then Killian as she takes a deep breath on match point. Killian smiles and gives her a subtle nod, and then she raises the ball in the air, ready to toss it.

-/-

Game. Set. Gold freaking medal.

-/-

Afterward, she falls to the ground, her knees aching as they hit the asphalt, and her body can’t stop shaking with her sobs. She doesn’t know what she feels or how she feels or even where she is, and she only gets up from the ground when she hears her family calling for her. She slowly rises from the ground, runs across the court to congratulate her opponent on playing a good match, and then she’s running to the stands and climbing up with David’s help. She embraces him first. She wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for him. he’s been her rock for her entire life, and he keeps her steady. Then it’s her physio and her agent and Ruby. Then, over to the side, is Killian, and their conversation from a few nights ago comes back to her.

She loves him. She’s proud to be with him. They shouldn’t have to hide their family anymore.

They haven’t exactly been doing a good job of it this week anyway.

So Emma very literally pounces on him, her legs wrapping around his waist, before she remembers that he has a match tomorrow. She can’t miss his back up. He’d never let it go if she did. Her feet fall to the ground, but her arms stay wrapped around Killian’s neck as he whispers words of encouragement and congratulations that she’s always going to keep close to her heart, right next to the necklace with the initials O-S-J on them.

Two people thousands of miles apart were brought together by chances, a whole myriad of them. If Ruth hadn’t adopted Emma and David, they never would have picked up a racket. If Emma had never picked up a racket, she wouldn’t have found her purpose in this world. She wouldn’t have a job or a daughter or a man who loves her in spite of how hard she is to love. There was so much that could have derailed her, both good and bad, and while she could say none of it matters, in some way, it all does.

Because it led her here.

And she doesn’t want to be anywhere else even if she would give anything to be able to hug Olivia right now.

“You did so good, Swan,” Killian whispers, his voice the only one she hears.

“I know.”

He pulls back, and there are tears in his eyes that mirror her own. “So, I guess I have to win tomorrow so your bragging rights don’t get too big.”

“Oh, Jones, you are never catching up with me now,” she teases, all of the exhaustion melting away. “I’m miles ahead of you, but you better win. Olivia doesn’t need to be embarrassed by her dad.”

“Pretty sure that’s my job.”

“Right now, your only job is to help me back down onto the court and then go win yourself a gold medal.”

“Don’t tell the presses you’re rooting for a Brit.”

Emma shrugs as Killian thumbs away tears underneath her eyes. “I don’t care anymore, and I’m definitely going to be sitting in your box tomorrow, cheering louder than anyone else.”

-/-

When Killian wins the next night after a torturous four hours, his fall is almost identical to Emma’s. Though, when he climbs into the stands to get to the box, he immediately goes for Emma, cupping her cheeks and kissing her for the entire world to see.

“I guess I’ll have to figure out a way to embarrass our daughter in another way.”

“I think her parents making out on international TV might do just that.”

-/-

Two days after they get home – they spent the entire first day sleeping and holding Olivia – Emma puts on her three gold medals, Killian puts on his one, and they hold Olivia in between them, her toothy smile brighter than the gold as the photo is taken.

_Olivia Swan-Jones has a pretty cool mom and a dad who has some catching up to do in the gold medal department._

It’s Emma’s most liked picture on Instagram, not that she cares about any of those things, and it’s the biggest news story for three days straight despite the literal Olympics still happening.

All Emma cares about, though, is that she has a week off – she opted out of Cincinnati after all, despite David’s protests – she can spend with her family before she and Killian are off to New York where the pressure will be the highest it’s ever been and the media will most likely be losing their shit over Emma and Killian’s announcements.

Olivia will be with her, Killian too, and in the end, that’s all that matters.

Oh, that, and the fact that Emma Swan is officially back, and it feels damn good.


	2. Chapter Two: 2012

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Summary: He’s seen her around. Of course he has. They walk in the same circles, play at all of the same combined tournaments, and they have mutual friends. It’s not until they both win the Australian Open and start talking over Instagram that Killian Jones gets to know Emma Swan. He doesn’t expect one message to turn into more, and he certainly doesn’t expect to find himself knowing who Emma is when she’s not got a racket in her hands. 
> 
> Even more, he doesn't expect to let her know who he is off the court when that's a secret he holds close to the vest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the first part of the expansion of this universe. Since I'm just doing one-shots to expand this one, I thought I'd cover a lot of time here. We may slow it down a little in the next few, but since I haven't written them yet, I make no promises 😘

**2012.**

“You look nice, Swan.”

She’s standing in front of him in a pair of long white paints and a matching white shirt that bares her midriff. Her lips are painted red, her blonde hair long and curled. It’s different to how he usually sees her, but the same can be said for him as he adjusts his jacket sleeves. They spend their lives in athletic wear with sweat an almost constant companion. They do not spend their lives dressed up like this.

“Same to you. How are you not dripping in sweat?”

“Oh, I bloody well am. It’s hidden under the jacket.”

Emma laughs and flips her hair off her neck. “Damn Australian summers. Been trying to kill me since I was eighteen.”

“But now you’re the queen of the court. Congratulations, by the way. That was a damn good match.”

She smiles and adjusts her trophy as he does the same, the flashes of photographers surrounding them and the water behind them. They’ve both done their individual photographs but are now doing promotion for the tournament and Nike, their clothing sponsor. Killian has the beginnings of a long flight today, and Emma has an even longer one to America. He believes she lives in Florida, but it could also be New York. Maybe California. He’ll ask Ariel if she knows, because he already knows she will have the answer to every question he asks. His manager knows everything there is to know about everybody. Somewhere in that brain of hers, Ariel Fisher has a file on Emma Swan that Killian has never bothered to ask about.

It’s not that he’s never been intrigued. She’s a damn good tennis player and a successful one at that. He’s watched her rise to the top of their sport for years now, and while they’ve done a few photo shoots and charity matches together, they’re never talked much outside of a professional capacity. He knows her brother is her coach and she’s close to Ruby Lucas, another player, and he’s read a little about her upbringing. That’s something she keeps close to the vest, but he gets it. He does the same thing. That isn’t the easiest when you’re on the world’s stage like they are. Now, everyone has to know the details of personal lives of athletes, and it makes staying private difficult when you have to brand yourself to get sponsors. Killian would rather run for five hours over doing an interview, especially now that he’s given twenty interviews since the championship last night.

It’s media overload in every way.

“Congratulations to you. I may have slept through half your match, but what I saw was good.”

“Thanks,” Killian laughs, scratching his chin. “I’m terrified that if I sit down, I won’t be able to get back up.”

“Oh, that’s definitely a risk. David had to slide me out of the bed this morning. I’m only wearing this because I was too lazy to shave. I was pretty sure I’d have to have help.”

He bites his tongue to keep from making the comment he wants to make and turns back to the camera, smiling and nodding, following the rest of the instructions. He and Emma are quickly pulled in different directions to finish out their obligations, and before he knows it, he’s on a plane, flying away from Australia. It’s been a month since he’s been home, and Oxshott has never seemed so good even if there is no one at home waiting to greet him.

-/-

Killian grabs a sweater from the shelf, pulling it over his shoulders, and heads downstairs where he fixes himself a cup of tea and settles on his couch, his television playing in the background. It’s been a long day. His first day back training after a week break nearly killed his knees, but that’s over now. He’s put in his time on the court and at the gym, and no one is going to bother him for the rest of the day. He’s muted Ariel’s name in his phone, and if she really needs him, she’ll call him from Eric’s phone.

God does he hope she doesn’t need him tonight.

Nemo better not either because Killian does not want to see his coach’s face again until early tomorrow morning.

Despite his sweater, he’s still chilled. Going from an Australian summer to a British winter is quite the adjustment. It’s nearly as bad as the jetlag.

Killian’s phone dings in his hand, and he dreads what message he’s surely gotten. He expects it to be Ariel from Eric’s phone, but it’s an Instagram message.

**@EmmaSwan: Whoever said @KillianJones was photogenic needs to take a serious look at these photos.**

He looks at the photographs, and it’s a series of horribly awkward faces he’s made. He remembers this moment of the shoot. A bug kept trying to fly into his mouth, and at one point, it succeeded. Emma looks great in them, laughing with a bright smile, and she’s right: there’s no part of him that’s photogenic there.

**@KillianJones: So you’re saying there are people out there who think I’m photogenic?**

Her reply comes instantly.

**@EmmaSwan: Well, there were! ;)**

Killian laughs and then clicks on her profile, scrolling through. She has several pictures from her win, a few training videos, but mostly it’s pictures of her with some of the women she’s friends with on tour or her brother and sister-in-law. His page is so different in that it’s made up of a majority of tennis photos. He doesn’t share much about his personal life there because there isn’t much to share lately, and when there was, he didn’t want the world to know who he was dating. They did, of course. There were few ways to hide it all when he had photographers literally hiding in bushes, but he imagines if it was a relationship he truly held sacred, he would find a way to keep it hidden away.

Milah was the last person he would have wanted that with, but she was a fan of the attention. She still is if what he sees around is any indication. She married some older man who is worth millions, but other than that, Killian tries not to keep up with her. Some days it goes better than others, but being disconnected from the world does help.

Social media definitely doesn’t.

And after looking at Emma’s profile a little more carefully, he realizes her profile is more private than he thought. In some way, every photo that has a person in it relates back to tennis.

Killian exits out of the app and goes to the link Ariel sent him of all the photos from his shoot with Emma. He clicks on it and tries to find one where she looks bad. It takes awhile, damn gorgeous woman, but he eventually finds one where the wind blew her hair in front of her and she’s making an awful face. It’s perfect, and Killian quickly saves it and a nicer photo to his phone before uploading them to Instagram.

**@KillianJones: @EmmaSwan, if only your serve was as big as your hair.**

_@EmmaSwan direct messaged you._

**@EmmaSwan: My serve stats are better than your serve stats.**

**@KillianJones: Lies.**

**@EmmaSwan: Okay, well, my hair is also better than your hair.**

**@KillianJones: Eh, I wouldn’t say that either.**

**@EmmaSwan: My ass is better than your ass.**

**@KillianJones: Now, I will fully agree with that.**

**@EmmaSwan: Isn’t it, like, midnight in England? What are you doing up, old man?**

**@KillianJones: Watching TV and having a cuppa. Truly exciting times here.**

_@EmmaSwan has added a picture to this chat._

It’s a shot of her legs, her feet resting on the court. There’s a pool of sweat underneath her, and he is not jealous. It’s February, and while he knows she lives in south Florida – he did ask Ariel – it shouldn’t be warm enough for anyone to sweat that much unless they put in a massive amount of effort.

He must be getting old for this game if just thinking about that makes him want to retire, but there’s no way in hell that’s happening anytime soon. He told Liam he would play until he no longer had a passion for the game.

That hasn’t happened yet.

**@EmmaSwan: I’m making my mark on this court. I cannot wait to be in my pajamas watching TV tonight. If I can get up from this chair.**

**@KillianJones: I’m sure you can slide home in that lovely pool of sweat.**

**@EmmaSwan: Honestly, I have thought about it.**

**@EmmaSwan: I’ve got to practice my shitty serve, but I’ll think of smacking your face every time I do it. I’m sure my numbers will be higher than ever.**

**@KillianJones: Anything I can do to help.**

-/-

“How do you eat your strawberries?”

“With my fingers,” Killian says, arching his brow at such a ridiculous question.

“You’re supposed to say with cream.”

Killian spins around behind him, and he immediately sees Emma Swan walking toward him. He hasn’t seen her in months as the tours haven’t had a joint tournament since Australia, but they’ve been chatting pretty regularly over Instagram. He’s never liked the app, but it’s one of his most used ones now.

“Excuse me, lass?”

“You’re doing a promotion for Wimbledon, idiot. They want all of us to say we eat our strawberries with cream.”

“I actually don’t love the cream.”

Emma mock gasps, covering her chest with her hands, before stepping up to him and giving him a quick hug he’s sure is for the cameras surrounding them. “Well, they should kick you out of England for saying something like that.”

“Believe me, they’ve tried, but I chained myself to the ground to keep it from happening.”

“I’m sure we could find you a place here if we had to.”

“Your place?” Killian jokes.

“In your dreams, Jones.” Emma widens her smile before turning to the camera. “I’d eat my strawberries with cream, just in case you want to use me for the promotions instead of this shameful excuse for a Brit.”

“Actually,” the producer behind the camera says, “we have a game that we’d love for the two of you to play together if you want. We usually don’t have two of the bigger names up here at once.”

“What’s the game?” Emma asks.

“It’s basically beer pong.”

Emma tilts her head back with laughter and claps her hands together. “Oh, I’m good at this. You’re going down, Jones.”

“Nice to see your competitive spirit doesn’t die off the court.”

“It never does.”

Emma shrugs and walks over to where they have a ping pong table set up on the roof of this building. Killian gets to travel a lot of beautiful places for his job, and while he doesn’t get to explore a lot of them, he does get to take in the view. He’ll never get over the oasis that is Palm Springs with its mountains going as far as the eye can see with palm trees and lush vegetation filling in so many other gaps. There’s a hell of a lot of desert, but considering Killian only goes between the tournament and his hotel, he doesn’t see that. For him, it’s all about the oasis.

“You ready?” Emma asks as they settle at opposite ends of the table. “It’s going to be a challenge to beat me.”

He winks and leans forward, hovering over the cups of water. “I do so love a challenge.”

-/-

“I mean, I wouldn’t say that you had a bad reputation.”

Killian rolls his eyes and toes his trainers off, kicking them across his hotel room in Monte Carlo. He pulls his phone away from his ear and puts it on speaker so he can change clothes while Emma talks.

“Then what would you say, love?”

He imagines she shrugs, and if he wasn’t disgustingly sweaty despite his shower at the club, he’d video call her instead of this. “I would say you had a _colorful_ reputation.”

“For fuck’s sake, that’s the same thing.”

“No, no, it’s not,” Emma sighs. “It’s…”

“Swan, I was on the verge of getting all my sponsorships taken away at the age of twenty-two. I’d barely gotten started, and I nearly fucked it all up by drinking too much and being enough of an idiot to do it in public.”

“And now you’re England’s poster boy for all sports, so at least from a publicity standpoint, it’s all okay.”

She’s right. He knows she’s right, and he appreciates being talked down after an awful contract negotiation with one of his sponsors and what will surely be an equally awful conversation with Ariel later. They decided that they suddenly had issues with some shit he pulled six years ago, and he’s tired of having to explain himself to people.

His fucking brother died, and Killian didn’t handle it well. How is anyone supposed to handle that, let alone a twenty-two-year-old whose only family was that brother? It was too much, and while he didn’t tank his career, he did derail it, drinking and sleeping around and making horrible choices for his body. There are times when he still wants to do that, but he knows better now. His grief is private, and the world will never see it again unless it’s on his terms.

“My brother’s life was taken because of a drunk driver, and, you know, I’d give up all the sponsorships to have him back. I’d give it all up. And I know I did a piss poor job at dealing with my grief by getting drunk just like the man who killed him, even if I never got behind the wheel, but what was I supposed to do? It hurt too much to not be dulled.”

The other end is silent, and he focuses on his own breathing. It’s heavy now, and he can feel his heart thumping. He hates this feeling. He hates talking about his past, and he damn well hates having to talk about Liam like this.

He’s got no fucking clue why he’s talking about it with Emma, but she called right after the meeting and he spilled his guts out of frustration.

“I never met your brother,” Emma says so quietly he can barely hear her, “but if he was anything like mine, I can guarantee that he’d be proud of you for getting through it and continuing to move forward. Life sucks, Jones, and we all deal with those sucky moments in different ways. I, for one, eat massive amounts of icing and candy. I have an entire stash in a drawer in my bathroom so David can’t find it and scold me for it.”

Killian huffs and reaches up to yank his shirt off before falling back on the bed. He tugs on his hair before blowing it off his cheek. He needs a haircut.

“You keep icing in your bathroom? That seems unsanitary.”

“I promise it’s very secure.”

Killian hums and more silence falls between them. He doesn’t feel the need to fill it, but he does anyway. “I live alone, so I think I may not need to hide my icing stash. I’d have to get one first.”

“Cream cheese is the way to go. It’s, like, two dollars and all the calories are so worth it.”

“Have you ever considered making it at home?”

“I would give myself food poisoning. I can’t really cook.”

“No?”

“Absolutely not. Never learned how to do anything past the basics, and I’m not home enough to try. When I do, Mary Margaret always takes over so I don’t get food poisoning.”

“Where are we together next? Rome?”

“Madrid,” Emma sighs, and he hears a dog bark in the background. He’s sure she doesn’t have a dog, but maybe someone she’s with has one. Or she’s walking around her neighborhood. He never did ask what she was doing. Instead, he immediately started bitching about his sponsor meeting, and then they ended up here. Most of their conversations veer off track, so it’s nothing he isn’t used to. “I get there Monday.”

  
“I think the same unless I lose early here.”

“You best not. I have money on you.”

“Well, that’s a good way to get yourself suspended.”

Emma laughs, and Killian stretches out on the bed, flexing his feet. “Well, if you don’t tell anyone, I think I’ll be okay.”

“I swear I shall not say a word. Also, Swan, I don’t think we’ll have access to a kitchen in Madrid, but when we get to Rome, I’ll cook you something.”

“If I’m in Rome, I’m not wasting a dinner on your cooking.”

“We can eat two dinners then,” Killian suggests.

“I like that idea.” The dog barks again in the background, louder this time. “I have to go. My neighbor’s dog is walking over this way, and I have to give him my full attention.”

“Bye, love.”

“Talk to you later, Jones!”

The phone goes silent, and Killian closes his eyes. It’s been a rough day for a myriad of reasons, and all he wants is to sleep. His call with Emma has calmed him, as they usually do, but that’s something he often doesn’t like admitting to himself.

Getting involved with Emma would be complicated, and Killian isn’t sure he can do complicated anymore.

His phone buzzes, and he opens one eye to look at the message.

**Ariel Fisher:** I’m coming to talk to you because you stormed off.

**Ariel Fisher:** I have the key to your room, so make sure you’re dressed.

**Ariel Fisher:** I’m bringing dinner, so I know you at least kind of want to see me.

**Killian Jones:** I’m in the nude, and I’m not changing for you.

**Ariel Fisher:** It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.

**Killian Jones:** That is your fault for walking into my bathroom without knocking.

-/-

Killian wins in Monte Carlo, and it feels good to have a trophy for the first time since late January. It’s only April now, and he’s only played three tournaments since Australia. Yet, he had higher expectations for himself for this year. It’s a great year by anyone’s standards, but Killian has really focused on his training this year. He wants another record year like two years ago, and if he keeps this momentum going, maybe he can do that.

That year, he’d worked off the motivation of heartbreak. This year, he’s trying to work off the motivation of doing something for himself.

Whatever keeps him in the game.

Whatever keeps him loving what he does like Liam asked him to do.

-/-

The thing about Killian’s job is that he’s constantly surrounded by bloody people. From when he’s playing a match to doing press to sitting in the living room of the houses and apartments he rents for some tournaments when he doesn’t want to stay in a hotel. Sometimes the only times he has to think are when he’s on court, which is ridiculous because that’s when he’s surrounded by the most people and is supposed to be focusing on his plan for the next point.

Tonight, Killian had planned on having Emma over for dinner, but Ariel, Eric, Will, and Rob have all shown up and are sitting on his couch watching the television and he’s desperately trying to get Emma to pick up her phone before she arrives. He’s sure Nemo and Al could show up any second by the way things are going.

“Hello?”

“Swan!”

“Hey, I was just about to get a car from the hotel to your place. Everything okay?”

Killian sighs and massages his fingers over his forehead. “It seems my team and my mates have decided they’re spending the night with me, so if you want to stay at the hotel, I would understand.”

“Oh?”

“Aye. Of course, you can still come if you want.”

“Is there still going to be food?”

“Absolutely, but I don’t think I’ll be cooking it.”

“Then I’m coming,” Emma laughs. “Would you mind if I brought some people over as well? I can pay for their dinners.”

“The more the merrier,” Killian says, even if that is not how he intended his night to go. “See you soon, love.”

Killian walks back to the living area and settles down in an armchair, bracing himself for the onslaught of questions he’s about to get. “Emma Swan is coming over for dinner. She’s bringing people with her. I don’t know who yet, but I know she is.”

Slowly, everyone turns and stares at him, and Killian is already dreading everything about tonight.

“Why the fuck is Emma Swan coming over?” Will asks as everyone else nods. “I didn’t even know you knew her.”

“How would I not know her?”

“Oi, you know what I meant! You know her, but you know her in a way that has you say hello in the hallways, not that you invite her and her mates over to take our food.”

“You were not invited here tonight, Scarlet.”

“I am _always_ invited.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Ariel sighs, holding her hands up between them. “I need more of an explanation. How did this come about? Are you dating Em – ”

“No, A. Bloody hell, no.” Killian stands from the chair and straightens out his t-shirt. “We got to talking about food one day, and I casually invited her over. Believe it or not, I can have other mates besides you lot.”

“Your personality says otherwise,” Rob teases, and Killian rolls his eyes.

“Alright, alright. What should we get delivered for dinner? A little bit of everything?”

“I still have so many questions,” Ariel tells him.

“I have no more answers. I’m going to order food. You guys can keep watching the match.”

“Isn’t this who you play tomorrow?” Rob asks.

“Mhm, but Nemo will take enough notes and give them to me, so I don’t have to watch the match too closely.”

Killian walks away from the living room and goes through the contacts in his phone for the restaurants he likes, and once he settles on one, he orders several meals for delivery, chatting with the owner and promising her he’ll be in to see the entire team before he leaves Rome.

There’s a knock on the door, and Killian glances out the kitchen window. He can see Emma, Emma’s brother, and her sister-in-law. He was expecting Ruby Lucas and Anna Jergenson, but he shouldn’t be surprised. Her family is nearly always with her.

Ariel gets to the door before he does, hugging and greeting everyone. She knows David and Mary Margaret from constantly working with Mary Margaret over management collaborations, and while this is a large industry, there is always going to be overlap amongst certain people.

“David, nice to see you,” Killian says, walking into the room and taking David’s hand before kissing Mary Margaret’s cheeks. “Mary Margaret, beautiful as ever. Hey, Swan.”

“What? Am I not as beautiful as ever?” she jokes as she embraces him. “I got all dressed up for this. I’m wearing leggings that don’t have any holes in them.”

“I thank you for your effort.” He pulls back and winks. “I’m sorry for the slight change of plans, but I guess I’ll give you food poisoning another day.”

“Can’t wait.”

Killian guides them into the living room, where it’s a mess of greetings and jumbled conversation, and Killian settles himself back in the chair in the corner, watching everyone talk. They’re in the middle of one of the busiest stretches of the season, and it’s nice to have a night where he can relax. He has a match tomorrow and possibly even more depending on how tomorrow goes, but he tries to forget about those. That’s something Killian is still working on. Liam was the one who usually made him forget, and while his mates, many of them under the same pressures, do a damn good job, there are rarely times when his mind doesn’t race with the possibilities of how everything good in his life can slip away.

Killian rents this house in Rome every year because it was Liam’s favorite, so this week is always a particularly difficult one when everything reminds him of his brother.

When the food arrives, Killian spreads it around the kitchen and gets out a few bottles of wine. He won’t drink tonight, but others might want to. They fill their plates and settle back in the living room, the match that was at the forefront now in the background as Rob and Will take the piss out of each other for how badly the mangled the Italian language while asking for directions earlier today.

“I didn’t grow up speaking two languages! I’m still learning!” Will grumbles.

“You trained in Italy for most of your childhood.”

“I have no excuses for Italian, I know. I do speak French pretty well.”

“Oi, and none of us have to wonder why that is,” Rob laughs.

“You’re all wankers.”

“Why does Will know French?” Emma asks him from her seat next to him.

“His girlfriend is from France.”

“Ah,” Emma sighs, picking up a piece of ravioli and putting it in her mouth. “This is delicious. Much better than whatever it was you were planning on cooking.”

“I’m going to prove you wrong one day.”

She shrugs and puts her plate down on the coffee table next to her glass of wine. “If you say so. Where’s the restroom?”

Killian points to the hallway behind the kitchen. “Second door on the right.”

Emma nods and stands from her seat, walking away toward the bathroom. He gets a notification on his watch that he’s got a text from Nemo, and it looks like a long one. Sighing, Killian moves away from the conversation and down the hall to his bedroom so he can text Nemo back. It’s an analysis of his opponent for tomorrow, and Killian skims through it. He’ll read it more in the morning since his match isn’t until the afternoon, but if he doesn’t text Nemo back now, he’ll call until Killian does. The man is a damn good coach, but he can also be high-strung.

The bedroom door clicks behind Killian as he closes it, and at the same time, Emma leaves the bathroom. The two of them are nearly pressed together in the close quarters of the hallway, and Killian aligns himself against one wall while Emma does the same with the other. Still, he can feel her foot brush against his, and he is close enough to see the freckles on her face.

Those freckles are what have himself tilting closer, his breath intertwining with hers, and for every movement he makes, Emma makes an equal one, the voices in the background fading away as Killian focuses on the flutter of Emma’s lashes and the subtle twitch of her lips. He mirrors her, curling up one corner of his mouth and teasingly tapping his lips.

“Please,” she laughs, “you couldn’t handle it.”

“Perhaps you’re the one who couldn’t handle it.”

Emma studies him as heat swirls around them and tickles up his spine, pulling him closer to her. He watches her, waiting to see if she’ll do something, but he expects her to make a joke, to turn away like she sometimes does when things get a little too serious between them when they’re talking in person instead of over the phone. She doesn’t always do that, not when he’s the one sharing, but when it comes to her, she’s more guarded, holding everything deep within.

Emma Swan is constantly subverting expectations, however, so when she pulls on the collar of his shirt and tugs his mouth to hers, he takes a moment to reciprocate.

Bloody fucking hell.

Emma is kissing him.

And she’s damn good at it too. Killian reaches up to thread his fingers through her hair, pulling and tugging until he can take a little of the control back from her. She’s a demanding one, and while he can’t say he minds, he would like a little control too. Her lips are soft, and she tastes of wine and the spices of her ravioli. He could get lost in it all, especially when she moans in response to him backing her up against the wall. Her back arches, and Killian rolls his hips as Emma’s kiss teases him. The friction is fucking amazing, and it would be so easy to take a few steps to the right to his bedroom and…

Suddenly, Emma pulls back, lingering in his space, breath hot against his skin, and Killian can feel a smile tugging at his kiss swollen lips.

“That was – ” Killian mutters, leaning in to kiss her again.

“A one-time thing,” Emma quickly tells him, shoving at his chest until he backs away, a mountain of space between them. “I’m going to go back to the living room. Actually, I think I need to go home. I have an early training session tomorrow.”

“Swan – ”

“Thank you for dinner. It was great.”

Then she’s gone, blonde hair falling away, and Killian can’t move from his spot, standing there with his fingers against his lips. He listens to her tell David and Mary Margaret she’s ready to go, listens to her telling everyone goodbye, and then she’s gone, the front door shutting behind her.

What the hell just happened.

And when did he fall halfway in love with Emma Swan?

_Fuck._

“What happened to your hair?” Ariel asks when Killian gets the strength in his legs to walk back to the living room.

“Nemo,” he lies. “His analysis for tomorrow had me tugging on it.”

Ariel studies him like she doesn’t believe him, but then she’s back to drinking her wine and talking to Eric, her life going on as normal even when his isn’t.

-/-

He gets blown out of the water in his match the next day.

He can’t compartmentalize his thoughts, putting the personal behind him and the professional in front of him. That’s been the key to all of his success. No matter what’s going on in his personal life, he can always lace up his trainers and take the court, leaving all of that behind him.

Today, it’s like everything that’s happened to him in the past decade has come flooding back, and Killian wants nothing more than the floodgates to stop.

-/-

Emma doesn’t respond to any of his texts.

He pretends it doesn’t bother him as his team leaves Rome and flies to Paris, immediately preparing for Roland Garros. Killian can fuck around at other tournaments on occasion, but he can’t do it at a major. There are only a handful of those to go around, the importance of them will never be lost on him.

Even if sliding across the clay is the last thing he wants to do right now.

“Smaller steps,” Nemo yells from his place on the sidelines. “You’re going to fuck up your ankle if you run like that.”

Killian adjusts his footwork and keeps moving, sweat slicking down his back as the crowds around the practice courts fill in while more players keep showing up. When he sees long blonde hair in her trademark braid three courts over, his step nearly falters.

It doesn’t.

He can’t.

If Emma is going to put distance between the two of them, he’ll let her. He had a life long before he began talking to Emma Swan, and he’ll have one if she never talks to him again.

He’s a liar if he says that his world would be anything other than miserable for awhile.

-/-

Killian crashes out in the quarterfinals of Roland Garros, and he immediately puts it behind him, bracing his shoulders for a month of grass court tournaments in his own country, where the pressure is always highest.

Sometimes it can be suffocating, but he has to do it.

-/-

“Okay, now that you’ve answered all of our questions, we want to show you a little video clip,” Chris McKendry tells him while Killian adjusts the mic resting on his ear.

“It’s never good when you tell me that, Chris.”

She laughs, as fake as always, but Killian goes along with it. “I promise you’ll enjoy this one.”

A producer for ESPN hits play on the video, and Killian keeps his eyes glued to the screen even as someone slides several bowls of strawberries and cream in front of him. The video of he and Emma from California plays on the screen, all of the promotional work the two of them did that day after she took the piss out of him for his answer to how he ate strawberries and cream. Killian forces a smile on his face, not allowing the cameras to see him slip, because this is what he does now. He’s a perfectly polished PR machine. If he’s going to show emotions other than happiness, they’re going to be either on the court or behind the scenes with no cameras rolling. They are certainly not going to be here.

“So, Killian,” Chris laughs as the video rolls, “we thought it would be fun to bring you some strawberries and cream with a spoon to eat them.”

Killian chuckles and takes the spoon, scooping up a large helping of the strawberries and cream and eating it. It’s not bad. He doesn’t like it, but it’s not the worst thing he’s ever had to eat because someone has asked him to. And the faster he plays along, the faster he can get out of here.

“I think I’ve got it right now,” he jokes, “though I know my last answer went viral because I failed all of Britain with it.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say that, but we are giving you this chance to redeem yourself so you can have this crowd behind you for the fortnight. With your draw, I think you might need it.”

“Draws don’t always hold up, but nevertheless Chris, I’m ready for the challenge.”

“You always are.”

-/-

She’s fucking incredible to watch.

She moves with grace but with incredible power underneath her feet and determination set between her brows. Her play gets better with every match she plays, and Killian is mesmerized by it even if he’s been avoiding her matches over the past few weeks. But now she’s on Centre Court, and her match is playing on the screen above his bike where he’s cooling down from his match. There is no avoiding it, and he can’t say he wants to at the minute. He’s obviously a glutton for punishment.

He’s seen her draw, knows that it’s just as difficult as his, and while she might not win here, the Olympics are just around the corner on these same courts. He can’t imagine her not winning at least one of the two.

Then again, he is aware of his bias, but he is also aware of Emma’s skill.

Killian grabs his phone and takes a picture of her match, posting it on his Twitter, which Ariel has told him he has to use more since he “needs to interact with people online.”

**@KillianJones: She’s graceful like a swan but also just as vicious. What a match to watch on my cool down. @Emmaswan is the type of player every kid should try to emulate when they pick up a racket**

It’s an olive branch.

If she doesn’t take it, Killian will be fine. He may have fallen hard and fast, but that doesn’t mean Emma did. She is free to take things at her own pace, whatever that may mean for the two of them.

-/-

_@emmaswan mentioned you in a tweet._

Killian swipes across his screen and opens Twitter, where he sees a picture of yesterday’s match. It’s from high above in what is obviously a private room, but it’s still clearly him on court, pumping his fist after a big point, the crowd standing all around.

**@EmmaSwan: @KillianJones, I don’t think any of these people like you. You should try to get them on your side.**

He laughs and falls back on his couch. He’s not well liked in a lot of places, but in his home country, he knows that as long as he’s winning, he has the country behind him.

No pressure.

**@KillianJones: @EmmaSwan maybe you could help me out. How do I get the crowd to like me?**

**@EmmaSwan: @KillianJones cook them a home-cooked meal. It’s the way to everyone’s heart.**

Killian nearly drops his phone. She’s joking. She has to be. This is the first time he’s so much as talked to Emma in weeks, and she either doesn’t realize the magnitude of her words or is sending him a clear message.

Emma has never cared much for subtly.

He closes out of Twitter and texts her, hoping he’s not fucking up the olive branch she took by snapping it in half.

**Killian Jones:** I’m making salmon tonight. It’s just me here tonight. I promise. Do you want to come over for dinner?

**Emma Swan:** How good is your salmon?

**Killian Jones:** It’s good.

**Emma Swan:** I’ll be there.

-/-

Emma Swan walks into his home like she belongs there. She steps inside his front door, removes her trainers, and easily walks to him in the kitchen, propping her hip against the counter while he prepares dinner. They talk, mostly about work, and Killian tries to act as unaffected by her presence as possible. The last time they were this close to each other, he had Emma pressed up against a wall. It’s been over a month since then with very little communication, and Killian constantly feels like a bucket of ice has been dropped over him.

He still doesn’t believe she’s here when he is clearly having a conversation with her.

They eat dinner on his couch, the television turned low in the background, and the conversation stays stilted. If Killian is honest, he wants to sink into the cushions and have this night be over with, but he knows better. Either this night firmly cuts the ties between them, or it ties the string back together.

He knows which one he wants, but he dare not speak for Emma.

“This is really good,” Emma says as she scoops up some of her remaining salad. “Thanks for cooking.”

“Thanks for coming over.”

“It’s a really nice place. I bet it must be nice to be able to stay home for a month while still working.”

“Yeah, it is.” Silence falls between them again, but it’s not comfortable, not like it used to be. “Look, Swan, I – ”

She holds up her hands and places the plate in front of her on his coffee table before twisting around and crossing her legs under her on the couch. “Don’t.”

“Pardon?”

“Don’t say it. Don’t apologize for doing something wrong when I’m the one who made out with you and then ran away. I fucked things up between us, and I don’t know how to fix it.”

“Do you want to fix it?” he suggests, knowing the line he walks is thin.

Emma shrugs, sheepish smile on her lips. “I don’t know. I don’t – I mean, I like…you’re…we’re…I don’t know, Killian. I am obviously not the most emotionally aware person, but I care. I care about my family, my friends…you. I care about you. Like, a lot, which was unexpected.” She leans forward and buries her face in her hands, all of her words coming out muffled. “I don’t know how I can do this without messing things up between us where we’ll be avoiding each other while having to walk the same circles.”

Killian arches his brow and stifles his laugh. He shouldn’t be laughing. This isn’t funny, but there is something comical about it.

“What I’m hearing is that you fancy me.”

Emma peeks out from behind her hands, and she glowers at him. “Seriously?”

Killian shrugs and leans forward, grabbing her hands and slowly intertwining their fingers. “I have no bloody idea what I’m doing either, and I don’t mean to upset you Emma. I really don’t. But we make quite the team. I think it would be foolish not to try, but I’ll do whatever you want.”

“That’s really fucking unfair to make me make the decision.”

“If I did, you would find a way to turn it around on me.”

She digs her nails into his palm, but he doesn’t flinch. “Asshole.”

“I would agree with that assessment most of the time.”

Emma rolls her eyes, but there’s also determination there, green, blue, and gold all mixed together to create the emotions hidden just below the surface. “We don’t tell anyone. Like, no one. I don’t like my private life to be public, and if we tell other people, it’ll become public. I’m already risking a hell of a lot possibly being with someone who I’ll have to see on tour if things get fucked up, so I want a safety net even if this doesn’t solve every issue.”

“You’re a romantic.” She parts her lips to protest, and he squeezes her hands, leaning forward and lingering in her space, closing half the gap. “But I agree with you, wholeheartedly. I was with this woman, and – ”

“We don’t have to talk about our pasts right now. I’ve got a match at one tomorrow, so we sure as hell don’t have time to get through everything. I’m also not entirely sure I trust you with everything yet.”

“You shouldn’t,” Killian half jokes as his lips ghost over hers, “but I hope to earn it.”

“Good,” Emma whispers, wrapping her arms around Killian’s neck and pulling him those final few inches toward her until her lips are softly gliding over his, pulling him under as pleasure trickles up his spine.

Good. This is all damn good.

They have no idea what they’re getting into, but Killian can’t wait to figure it all out.


	3. Chapter Three: 2013

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part Summary: It’s a secret. The biggest one Emma has ever kept, and it’s good. She’s good. Killian’s good. Their relationship is good. Everything is, as she keeps saying, good. She’s happy in more than just her career, and Emma likes it that way. 
> 
> Then again, she hasn’t been in the same country as Killian is nearly two months, can’t sleep in the same hotel room as him when they’re playing the same tournaments, and maybe everything isn’t, well, good. Killian seems to think telling their teams will solve all their problems. Emma isn’t too sure about that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everybody remember this? I decidedly forgot, so thank you to everyone who gently reminded me and asked if there would be anymore! I wrote it and promptly forgot again. lol. But there was some dang good tennis happening today, and I remembered I had to get this bad boy up 🎾

**March 2013.**

“Why are you staring at your phone?”

“Because that’s the point of phones, _David_.”

“You’re going to ruin your eyes like that, and for your information, I believe the point of phones is to make calls.”

Emma finishes typing her message, clicks off her phone, and places it on the lounge chair next to her. She stretches out, and lets her toes peek out into the sun from underneath her umbrella. It’s a dry ninety-five out today, which is somehow more tolerable than the humid ninety-fives of Florida, but since she already spends so much time in the sun and doesn’t exactly have the skin for that, she has to stay under the large resort umbrella as everyone else moves around in the pool freely. It’s not a hardship, obviously, but sometimes she does feel a little like she’s walking around in fifteen layers of sunscreen.

Probably because she is.

“The point used to be to make phone calls, but there are other reasons for phones now, old man.” Emma sits up and turns to her brother as he relaxes in the pool. There are only a few more people out here right now, which is surprising for how crowded she knows the resort is, but then again, it is nine in the morning. “Why are you bugging me about being on my phone? This is my off time. I can do what I want.”

“You sound like you’re twelve years old.”

“Well, why don’t you call Ruth and complain about it?”

David rolls his eyes, and Mary Margaret sighs in the chair next to Emma. “The two of you are ridiculous and ruining my vacation.”

“We’re here for work, Marg.”

She shrugs and slides down her large, round sunglasses. She’s wearing a high-waisted polka dot bikini, and she looks straight out of the 1950s. She’s taking the whole being in Palm Springs thing too far, but Emma can’t say much. They’re here a week earlier than usual since Emma didn’t play a warm-up tournament, and for the past three days, they’ve been running around like tourists doing all the things they never get to do. She can see why people love vacationing here even if she can’t wait for the temperature dip that’s supposed to be coming in tomorrow.

“I am off the clock today. I don’t have to deal with managing your life until tomorrow, so you are not a pain in the ass to me today.”

“Aren’t you so glad you gave up teaching to do this?”

Mary Margaret reaches over and pats Emma’s leg. “I miss all those kids, but I like getting to travel with you guys. They didn’t let me lounge around at pools when I was teaching.”

Emma’s phone buzzes next to her, and she picks it up and quickly replies to a text from Killian. He’s about to be on a plane from Acapulco, and he’s bored waiting in the airport. He’s been there for hours, and his flight keeps getting delayed. At this point, she’s pretty sure he won’t be getting on a plane until tonight, but he does have a day left of flight possibilities before he’s technically late in getting here.

He’s acting like it’s the end of the world, and it’s obviously not.

David splashes back into the water, floating on his back and moving away from the two of them, and Mary Margaret twists to the side, her eyes closes under her sunglasses. Emma takes the moment of alone time to snap a picture of herself, making sure to get the slightest bit of cleavage to mess with him, and then sends him the picture with no comment underneath. It’s a little mean, but she doesn’t care. The man will survive.

“I’m going to get something to eat and some drinks. Anyone want anything?”

“Some coffee for me,” Mary Margaret says. “David will probably want a bagel if they have them.”

“Gotcha.”

Emma stands from the lounger and places her phone in the waistband of her bikini. She walks along the edge of the pool, the tops of her feet getting soaked in water, until she’s at the covered bar. This place is filled with more people than the pool, and she guesses it’s never too early for alcohol when you’re on vacation.

9 AM seems a little early, but she’s not here to judge…at least out loud.

Her phone buzzes, and she pulls it out before it drops to the ground.

**KJ:** You tease me.

**ES:** It’s just so much fun. You should try it some time.

**KJ:** I would, but I’m in a public space.

**ES** : Pity.

**ES:** Text me when you land, alright?  
  


**KJ:** I will.

Emma orders several fruit bowls, a bagel, some water, and two cups of coffee, and has it sent back to their lounge area since she can’t balance it all herself. The three of them eat, relax, and Emma gets to spend precious hours not thinking about her job or training before she spends her entire afternoon in the gym, switching between the treadmill and spin rotations before stretching out her shoulders. It’s torturous, but when it’s done, it feels damn good.

So, too, will lying on the heating pad tonight.

-/-

“Emma,” Mary Margaret calls from outside her hotel door. “Emma.”

“Use your key!” Emma yells back.

There’s a click as the door unlocks, and Mary Margaret pokes her head into Emma’s room. “David and I are going to dinner. Do you want us to bring you anything back?”

“No, go have fun. I’ll order dinner here.”

Mary Margaret nods and smiles before stepping outside the door and closing it behind her. Emma needs to get up and bolt the locks, but this bed is really comfortable. Like, she could stay in it for the rest of the night…or the next two weeks. That would be the most comfortable.

This heating pad may be her best friend in the world.

There’s another knock on the door, and Emma grabs a pillow to cover her face as she groans. “Marg, you can just text me, you know that, right?”

Her neighbors are gonna love her if she keeps yelling from the bed like this.

There’s another knock, this time louder, and Emma tosses the pillow off herself before slinging her legs over the side of the bed and walking toward the door, where she can finally hear the voice on the other side.

It’s not Mary Margaret.

Emma opens the door, and there, standing in front of her with his hair and his dark circles hidden under a hat is Killian, who definitely did not tell her that he had safely landed in California. The last she heard, he was still in Mexico.

Bastard.

“Does your phone not work?” Emma asks.

He holds it up and shows off the black screen. “It died over New Mexico, I believe, and I put my charger in my checked luggage like an idiot.”

“Always put it in your carry-on, KJ. Always.”

Killian nods and tilts his head up. He’s got half of a smile on his lips. “Can I come in, or are you going to make me suffer outside in this hallway?”

Emma laughs and steps back into her room. Killian follows her through, dropping his bag to the ground as she pushes the door closed. It takes less than a second for her to wrap her arms around him as he does the same, collapsing into her. He feels heavy, like his legs are barely holding him up, and she knows the feeling. But he also feels warm, and a month and a half is too long to go without seeing him in person.

“I missed you,” Emma whispers. Things like that are still hard for her to say, even if she loves this man. There’s always that underlying fear that something is going to go wrong if she lets her heart be on her sleeve, but Killian makes it a little easier every time.

“How could you not?” he teases, and Emma gently slaps the backside of his head. “I missed you too, love.”

They linger, neither of them letting go, but then Killian pulls back and gently presses his mouth onto hers, whiskers pricking against her skin. She never thought she’d miss the feel of recently shaved stubble, but she does.

At least for right now.

“Your bed looks amazing right now,” he whispers into her mouth.

“Is that your version of flirting?”

“That’s my version of telling you I need to eat and go to sleep.”

“I haven’t eaten, so I’ll order dinner for us. Why don’t you take a shower?”

“Are you saying I smell?”

“I’m saying it’ll make you feel better…and maybe.”

His brows wiggle, and he tosses his hat onto the bed. “If they have fish, any kind, order me that.”

“Absolutely not.” Emma scrunches up her nose. “I’m not having this room smelling like fish.”

“Fine, but I’m not eating grilled cheese for dinner.”

“Lucky for you, that’s not in my pre-tournament diet plan.”

He holds his hand over his heart, mocking her. The bastard. “Thank goodness for that.”

“Get in the shower, Killian.”

“You know, if you wanted to see me naked, all you had to do was ask.”

“Shower,” she repeats, hitting his ass to push him toward the bathroom. He reluctantly goes, his legs dragging, and she can see in the way he walks how fatigued he is. It’s probably worse than he’s letting on, but she won’t push him, not right now.

As the water in the bathroom turns on, Emma flips through the room service menu before ordering both of them salads with extra grilled chicken. She gets some fries because she can – and because David will never know – and while she’s waiting on Killian and the food, she changes into her pajamas and settles down on the bed to find something to watch on TV.

The food, miraculously, get to the room first, and Emma sets it on the edge of the bed and sneaks a few fries in before Killian emerges from the bathroom, towel slung low on his hips, and joins her on the bed.

“What happened to you being on your pre-tournament diet plan?” he asks as he takes a fry out of the basket.

“I can cheat a little, and I don’t see you avoiding the fries.”

“Never.” He leans over and presses his lips to her cheek. “Thank you, love. I’ll buy you dinner tomorrow.”

“You do not have to do that.”

“No, but I want to. I was thinking we could sneak away and have a date. I hear there’s a great food festival happening downtown. How do you feel about cheating on your diet a little more?”

“I feel like if I can play for three hours with a hangover and three fourths of a pizza in my stomach, I can manage that.”

“You’re so charming.”

“I try.” Emma shrugs and lets him kiss her again.

How good it is for them to be in the same room. She can’t remember the last time they were even in the same country.

-/-

Emma practically has to escape the secret service to get out of her hotel the next night.

And by secret service, she means David and Mary Margaret, who watch her like hawks circling their prey or some other ridiculous metaphor. She spent all day with David training, moving between the gym and the courts on the tournament site, and she thought she would get the evening to herself. But they want to get dinner together and watch a movie by the pool. Any other night, she’d be up for that without question. Tonight, however, she has other plans, and while the guilt over lying to them is starting to build, she only feels a little bit of it when she eventually gets them to leave her alone for the night.

She says she’s too exhausted to hang out and that she wants to go to bed early, and that’s not true at all.

She’s so energized she might as well have had ten shots of espresso.

Killian meets her in a rental car in the parking lot, and Emma slides into the passenger seat, making a joke about him being able to drive on the right side of the road. She can’t see his eyeroll with the way his baseball hat is pulled low over his brows – she is wearing a wide-brimmed hat as well because they are obviously masters of disguise – but she knows it’s there. They spend several months a year at tournaments in North America, but Emma definitely has the home team advantage when it comes to navigating things. That month in England, however, is all Killian’s turf, and Emma is looking forward to that this year.

(If she wants to go back to the place where she won her gold medal and they got together, that’s no one’s business but hers.)

Downtown Palm Springs is packed with people, and Killian parallel parks a few blocks away from where the food festival is happening. Emma gets distracted by a few shops that have some of the cutest sweaters she’s ever seen – she definitely buys them – but they eventually make it to the stalls.

“This is what heaven must be like.”

Killian laughs and reaches down to lace their fingers together. He brings her palm to his lips and tugs her closer until their arms are wrapped around her shoulder. “Where she would start?”

“The booth with the queso dip. Then we move over to that Tai food, then the onion ring place, and we definitely have to get dessert that will have me struggling in practice tomorrow.”

“Your heart’s desire, Swan…or your stomach. I see you looked up what food would be here ahead of time.”

“Did you ever doubt that I would?”

They move from booth to booth, only allowing themselves small samples so as not to screw themselves over for the tournament, but the food is so good that Emma nearly overdoes it, especially when she finds the best bear claw she’s ever had and wants about a dozen more of them. She doesn’t, though, mostly because Killian drags her away to sit at an outdoor bar that has lanterns hanging from the fake tree limbs that make up the ceiling. It’s like being in a forest full of fairy lights, and as the temperature dips down and the breeze comes in – her new sweater is perfect for this, so _definitely not a waste of money, thank you very much, Killian_ – Emma realizes she hasn’t been this relaxed in ages.

Or this happy.

And she had a really damn good year last year that was filled with every high she’s ever wanted in her life.

“I love you,” Emma whispers across the table.

She doesn’t say it enough. She knows that, especially by the way Killian’s eyes widen. “I love you, too. It’s nice to get out like this. We should do it more often.”

“You know we can’t do that.”

The smile on his lips fades, and hers does the same. “But we could do it more. We could tell our teams, and it wouldn’t be so difficult for us to get out, or at least to stay in the same room sometimes.”

This is a point of contention between them. It’s new, but it’s been building over the past few weeks. Emma doesn’t want people to know. She doesn’t want to deal with the questions or the stress. She doesn’t want to deal with the scrutiny. And that’s just within her family. The world can’t know. The last time it did she was a hell of a lot less well known, but her face was still everywhere.

_Tennis prodigy left by business mogul’s son._

She didn’t know Neal’s dad was someone well known. She didn’t know at all. He was just Neal to her, just the older guy who talked to her like she hadn’t spent so much of her adolescence training, like she was normal.

But then he broke up with her when she wouldn’t give him the credit for her career, and he made their relationship public, releasing private photos and doing interviews, spreading lies. At the time, it felt like the end of the world. She was eighteen, had just won her first major, and her private life was lining the shelves at the grocery stores. Since then, most of those stories have been buried by her career, but when she dated Graham, all those feelings came back.

And he was a normal guy she met while running at a park near her house.

He wasn’t Killian, someone in her world who brings in even more attention than she does.

“I don’t want to talk about this tonight,” Emma tells him. She leans back in her chair and crosses her arms over her chest. “Can we just not? I’m having a good night. I don’t want to ruin it.”

“Swan…”

“No,” she shakes her head. “No. You know why I don’t want to. You know why _you_ don’t want to. We can talk about it next week.”

“If that’s what you desire.”

He says the words, and a part of her believes he means them. That, however, is a very small part.

_Shit._

-/-

There’s a buzzing sound.

A really, really, obnoxiously loud buzzing sound.

Emma’s still half asleep, her brain only functioning at fifteen percent, but eventually she figures out that it’s her phone that’s buzzing. Emma reaches over for it, slapping her hand across the bedside table until she finds it, and she squints at the bright screen while trying to make out the words.

Killian shifts behind her, his leg moving from on top of hers over to his side of the bed, and for some reason, that’s what wakes her up and enables her to be able read her messages.

She has twenty-two from Mary Margaret.

She has fifteen from David.

Each one of them is asking her why she lied about being exhausted last night and why she was with Killian Jones. And in the middle of the chain of text messages is a photo of Emma and Killian at the restaurant last night. They’re sitting across the table from each other. Emma’s arms are over her chest, Killian is leaning back, and they look like they can’t stand each other.

…how did someone see them?

How did they not see someone taking a picture of them?

Probably because they were too busy being in an argument over telling their teams about them while still keeping their privacy.

What fucking irony.

She kind of wants to vomit, and it has nothing to do with how much she ate last night.

And, of course, because her brother and her sister-in-law have no chill, they start banging on the door before Emma hears the door’s lock click.

Thank God for the bolt thing that keeps them from walking right in.

“Emma,” Mary Margaret whispers.

“Emma,” David booms, his voice loud enough to wake up the entire floor.

Or at least Killian.

“Who the fuck is that?” he hisses, his voice still riddled in sleep.

“Be quiet,” Emma hisses, getting out of bed and crawling over to her suitcase. She grabs a t-shirt and some underwear, puts them on, and moves over to Killian. “Check your phone. I’m sure Ariel has texted you.”

His brows furrow, but he does what he’s told as Emma moves toward the door. She needs to talk to them before they cause a scene, and they’re definitely already causing a scene. Emma undoes the bolt, and instead of letting David and Mary Margaret in, she pushes them back into the hallway. They are both smart enough not to yell at her when other people can hear what exactly the conversation entails.

They both open their mouths to most likely yell at her, but Emma holds her hands up to stop them. She’s got to bite the bullet on this, even if her stomach is turning and her heart wants to thump right out of her chest and into her throat.

At least that would stop the vomit. Probably.

“I need you to bury the picture,” Emma whispers. “Ask Nike to release the new shoes today instead of tomorrow. Call whoever at Elle and get them to release the interview and the pictures. Get me on a podcast or someone who doesn’t check the gossip, not that awful Ben guy who stirs it up. Hell, let’s get some of the girls together and have us go out together and have a million pictures taken. Just do something. It’s only the one picture so far, and I know you can handle it. Please.”

She’s begging, and she doesn’t care.

“I’ve already gotten it taken down from the photographer’s site,” Mary Margaret reassures her, reaching out to squeeze Emma’s forearm, “but there’s not guarantee it won’t be anywhere else. I’ll do everything I can to bury it. You’d have to do some deep diving to find it.”

Emma drops her head, relief washing over her. “Thank you.”

“What the hell were you thinking?” David grunts. Mary Margaret not-so-slyly elbows him, but it doesn’t deter him. “Going out with Killian Jones? Do you not know how bad that will be now? Not just the press, Emma, and the press will be bad if they get a sniff of this, far worse than they were with Neal. But you slept with him too, if the state of you is any indication, and I don’t think you’ve thought through the consequences of sleeping with someone who is, for all intents and purposes, your coworker. When this ends badly, you’ll have to stay around him. There’s no running away.”

“Oh, get off your high horse, David.” Emma turns around to see if anyone else is in the hallway and steps forward, pressing up on her toes to be level with her brother. “I’ve been dating Killian since last June, and I didn’t want anyone to know because of all the shit that’s gone down in the past. And I didn’t want you to know because I know you’d be an ass about it.”

“He’s a nice guy, but he’s not exactly known for being a good boyfriend,” David counters. Mary Margaret’s elbow goes harder into his side.

“Screw you,” Emma huffs. She turns away from David and starts walking down the hallway. She doesn’t have her room key, her phone, her wallet, anything. She doesn’t even have on any pants.

Shit.

She’s not wearing pants.

It’s that thought that has her stop in her tracks, and she doesn’t know what to do or where to go. She can’t go back to her room. David and Mary Margaret are still outside, and Killian’s still inside. She can’t go anywhere else because of, well, the lack of pants situation.

Why didn’t she put on any pants?

Frustrated, Emma turns the hallway corner until she finds a couch in the corner. There’s only one room on the hall, and she imagines the residents, if there are any, won’t leave in the few minutes she needs to calm down.

With her luck, they’ll walk out the door as soon as she sits down, and it’ll probably be another player or something.

Great.

Emma plops down on the couch, which is as comfortable as a sharp rock, and crosses her legs underneath one another, pulling her t-shirt down to cover her knees.

This is ridiculous. This is all ridiculous.

And a lot of it is her fault. She knows that. She could have been open with her brother from the start, but she knew he would react this way then too. That was never in question, but she should have been able to deal with it.

She should have been able to stop running away from things.

Obviously she’s still not good at that, but it’s worked all her life. Why fix things that aren’t broken?

“You look ridiculous.”

Emma turns to David, who of course didn’t give her much time to cool down, and she shrugs. She knows she looks ridiculous. She doesn’t need him to tell her that. She doesn’t need him to tell her anything.

“Well, maybe if I wasn’t being reprimanded like I was a child, I’d have had time to pull my shit together.”

“Nothing I said was wrong, Emma.”

Is there a world where older brothers are not obnoxious? She would like to visit there for awhile. Then she can make her own stupid decisions without his judgment.

“No, but you also didn’t give me any chance to explain anything. Did it ever occur to you that I did more than just sleep with him? That last night might not have been the only time we’ve been together? That he might be a good partner to me, better than he has been to others in the past?”

David moves closer and leans against the wall opposite her. His eyes study her, glancing up and down, and for a moment, Emma’s just a scared kid in a foster home, hoping that she and David don’t get separated. He took her under his wing when she got placed in that home, and he was the first person to ever do that. They may not be biologically related, but if Emma’s learned anything, you don’t need to share blood to be family.

He cares, she reminds herself. He’s misguided, but he cares. A lot.

So much that it makes Emma’s heart ache thinking about it.

“You love him.”

It’s not a question. It’s a statement, and David has always been able to read her well. Sometimes a little too well.

“I do.” She tosses her hands in the hair and smiles, unable to help herself. “David, I’m sorry that I kept it from you, but it’s because I’m scared. I haven’t loved anyone in a long time, and I know just how bad this can go if we break up. I think about it all the time.”

David chuckles. “That’s no way to think about your relationship, kid.”

“Yeah, well, I’m me.”

David moves from the wall and joins her on the rock solid sofa. He wraps his arm around her shoulder, and his lips press against her temple. “I understand why you did what you did, and even though I have a million more questions, I’m not going to press you on them. You’ll tell me when you’re ready.”

“Thank you,” she whispers, her heartrate finally coming down. “I just…I don’t know what I’m doing, but he’s a good man. He’s not perfect, and I’m sure you’ll find a way to pick him apart, but he’s a good man.”

“I promise to be nice.”

“I don’t believe you for a second.”

“Ha,” David chuckles before kissing her temple again. “Now, come on and go back to your room and put some pants on. Mary Margaret is dealing with the picture situation, and we’ll figure everything out until the two of you are ready. It’s never as bad as you think it is.”

“Sometimes it’s worse.”

“Hey, hey, no moping.” David moves his arm and nudges her shoulder. “We don’t do that around here. Lace up your sneakers and take the court with a positive attitude every time.”

Emma groans and stands from the couch, pulling her t-shirt down as far as it goes. “It’s too early in the morning to talk tennis. I’m going back to my room.”

“You have practice in an hour,” he reminds her, and Emma knows that David the brother has morphed into David the coach. There will be no more talking about her relationship until after training is done.

Emma waves him away. She’ll be there, but she’s not going to think about having to move for at least forty more minutes. The hallway is mostly empty as she moves back to the hotel – there is one maid who gives her a strange look, and Emma simply smiles in return, but other than that, she gets back into her room relatively unscathed.

Except Ariel Fisher is standing there lecturing Killian, who is still sitting underneath the covers with most likely no clothes on.

At least Emma is doing better than Killian in the clothes department.

What low standards.

“Emma,” Ariel says, stopping whatever lecture she was giving Killian, “nice to see you.”

Emma nods and yanks at the hem of her shirt. It does her no favors. “Same to you.”

“Well,” Ariel sighs, clapping her hands together and looking between the two of them, “first of all, I’m very happy for the two of you. Secondly, you’re about to make my life hell, so thanks for that. And finally, Killian, put some damn pants on and get ready. Nemo and Rob are not going to give you any slack for this, and you have practice in an hour.”

“Aye, aye, captain,” Killian mockingly replies, moving the sheets off of him until he is bare and exposed. Ariel doesn’t even flinch, and Emma knows in this moment that the woman has never taken any shit from Killian and was probably giving him absolute hell before she walked in.

Ariel is fifteen times scarier than David.

Emma likes Ariel a hell of a lot.

Ariel looks at Emma and rolls her eyes. “He’s your problem now. Good luck with – ” She motions to Killian “ – all of that.”

“Thank you,” Emma laughs. “Seriously. For everything.”

“Mhmm. I expect details later. When we can all get drunk, you, me, and Mary Margaret are having a night out. I have many questions.”

Emma points to Killian who is pulling on a pair of shorts now. “I think you’ve seen the details.”

Ariel tilts her head back with laughter and squeezes Emma’s shoulder. “You’re good for him.”

“He’s good for me,” she admits. It’s easier than she thought it would be.

Ariel smiles and then leaves the room, reminding Killian of his practice time. He mumbles something in response – Emma is pretty sure it was a curse not even she knows – but then the door is clicking closed and Emma is turning around to lock it before walking toward Killian. She walks straight up to him and wraps her arms around his waist while his arms come around her back. His hand is soothing as it moves up and down, and if they both didn’t have places to be, she could and would stay like this all day.

“Some morning, huh, love?” Killian jokes, kissing the crown of her head.

“Some morning,” Emma repeats. She pulls back and tilts her head up at him, the corners of her mouth betraying her by curling into a smile. “I’m sorry for being so obstinate about us telling our teams. It probably would have been much easier than whatever this was.”

“You had your reasons. I get it, love. I do. With everything you’ve been through, with everything I’ve been through…” He stops and shakes his head, long lashes fluttering against his cheeks. “Letting the people closest to us know is going to make our lives easier, and they’ll help us keep it from everywhere else until we’re ready. It’s not going to be like it was with Neal.”

“Or with Milah.”

“You’d think people wouldn’t care about us and we could hit a bloody green ball in peace.”

Emma pulls back even further and pushes her brows together. “You think a tennis ball is green? It’s obviously yellow.”

“Oh, love, I don’t know if our relationship can survive this kind of conflict. It’s obviously green.”

“Yellow.”

“Green.”

Emma pushes off Killian’s chest and turns away from him. She grabs some of her practice clothes out of the closet and clutches them to her chest. “I’m going to take a shower, and no you can’t join me until you have the right answer about what color a tennis ball is.

Killian clicks his tongue. “What a damn shame and a waste of water.”

“Yeah,” Emma sighs as she walks into the bathroom, “I’m sure it’s the waste of water you’re concerned about.”

“I love you, Swan.”

Emma waves him away and winks, flashing him one more smile before she closes the bathroom door.

Okay, so he was right. None of this was as bad as she thought it was going to be, and maybe one day she’ll feel more comfortable sharing her private life with more people. For now, though, she’s happy with how things are…even if her boyfriend thinks tennis balls are green.


	4. Chapter Four: 2014

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything is great. Emma is on top of the world, and she couldn’t be happier. Seriously, things couldn’t be going better for her, and despite her success in the past, Emma has a feeling this is going to be the best year of her career. It feels damn good to be number one for once in her life, and she doesn’t plan on giving that up anytime soon. 
> 
> Until she looks at the date on the calendar and the word on the stick, and suddenly, Emma is no longer on top of the world. She feels like she’s being crushed by it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anybody want some angst on a way to that happy, gold-medal winning ending?
> 
> Thanks to all of those who enjoy this universe 🎾

**2014.**

Shit.

Shit, shit, _shiiiiit_.

Emma cannot breathe. There’s no air in her bathroom. It’s all going away, oxygen evaporating right before her eyes. She doesn’t even know if that’s possible. She was never good in science classes, and she finished school at seventeen taking that GED test instead of finishing like normal people. It’s been almost a decade since she took any kind of class, and it’s not like she was ever paying attention. She doesn’t know how air would be going away or why she can’t breathe.

Oh, maybe her lungs are malfunctioning. That’s a possibility.

That doesn’t make things any better. She needs her lungs in order to live but also to keep her job. She needs her job to do things like pay for this stupidly big bathroom. Like, seriously. Why does she need a bathroom this big? She’s one person, and this place is bigger than her bedroom growing up. The tub alone might as well be a pool, but that wouldn’t make sense because she has a pool. It overlooks the ocean because her life now is nothing if not confusing and the complete opposite of what it was when she was bouncing around foster homes.

She really needs her lungs to keep working.

Emma is freaking out, and she doesn’t know how to stop it.

She doesn’t know how to stop any of it. What drawer is her secret icing in? She needs some of that. It’s in here somewhere, and she needs it. And then all of the icing that is also in her fridge.

She needs all of the icing in all of Florida.

“Emma?”

“Fuck,” Emma mutters, opening a drawer and dropping the box she’s holding into it before grabbing her mascara wand and pretending to apply another coat as Mary Margaret walks into the bathroom.

“Emma, you ready to go, sweetie? The car is waiting to take us to the airport.”

“Yeah, I’m ready. I just need to get my – ”

“I’ve got all your bags next to the front door.”

“That’s why you’re my manager,” Emma lies, her hand shaking as she gets her inner lashes with the wand.

Mary Margaret tilts her head and softly smiles, studying her, and Emma feels as if Mary Margaret can see inside all of her bathroom cabinets. “You okay? You look a little sick.”

“I’m fine,” Emma lies. “I’m just ready to get to New York. I’ve had my few days off, and I’m ready to get back to practice. I’ve got a trophy to defend.”

“Well, aren’t you optimistic?”

  
Emma rolls back her shoulders and walks past Mary Margaret. “I guess you’re rubbing off on me. I like the winning thing, and this year has been full of a hell of a lot of it.”

“I still can’t get over some of it,” Mary Margaret gushes.

“Me either,” Emma agrees, closing the bathroom door behind her.

It’s not a long flight from Palm Beach to New York, but Emma feels every minute of it. She tries reading one of the books she’s bringing for her, _hopefully_ , three weeks in Flushing Meadows, but she can’t focus on it. She also can’t focus on any of the movies Delta is providing, and sleeping is definitely not an option. The last thing she wants to do is go over old match tapes or David’s detailed, judgmental notes on them, but she does just that, watching all of her old mistakes and honing in on them.

Really, she should be watching her victories to encourage herself. These past two years have been the best, most consistent of her career, and she doesn’t want it to stop. Emma knows she was good before and that she was able to win the biggest of tournaments and consistently keep a high ranking, but she was never the favorite to win tournaments. She was always the fourth or fifth or even the fiftieth pick, not that what anyone says had anything to do with it.

Like David always says, there are no guarantees. You have to lace up the sneakers and play to see who’s going to win. In tennis, it’s more about draws and small margins than it is about who has the higher ranking.

The favorite is the one holding the trophy at the end of the tournament.

Despite that, Emma has always dreamed of being world number one. Now that she has that, the pressures make her want to give it all back and go back to where she could fly under the radar. She hasn’t been able to do that outside of tennis in years. America has this nasty problem of making mountains out of molehills when it comes to those in public spaces, and really, Emma could deal with the pressures in her career if she didn’t also have to deal with the pressures outside of tennis.

Why do people care so much about what she’s wearing? Where she’s eating? Who she’s dating?

It’s a lot, and Emma doesn’t want it anymore.

Thinking of it now makes her sick to her stomach, and now is not the time for that. She is not going to vomit in a paper bag while thirty thousand feet in the air.

Emma really, really feels like she has to.

When they land at LaGuardia, a tournament van is there to pick her up. David and Mary Margaret help her load her bags into the back, and then they’re whisked away through traffic to the tournament grounds, where Emma’s hair and makeup is touched up before she goes through four hours of press and photo shoots. She imagines the editors will have a hell of a time removing the dark circles under her eyes. She should definitely wear one of her overnight masks tonight, but that won’t help them out today.

“Smile for this next one,” the photographer tells her, “and hold your racquet against your chest, like you’re hugging it.”

Emma forces her lips into a smile and does what the photographer tells her to do. Sometimes, if she’s honest with herself, she enjoys the glitz and glamor of her job, at least in this capacity, even if she never wants to wear anything but pajamas and athletic wear herself, but when she’s stressed and hasn’t slept, she doesn’t enjoy it. She’d much rather come in tomorrow before her first practice on site and take the pictures, but it’s all almost over with now. Just a few more smiles and poses and she can go home…or to her hotel in Manhattan with what she hopes is the most comfortable bed in the world.

“Thank you very much, Ms. Swan,” the photographer tells her. “We’ll send over some proofs to your agent, and you can pick what you want us to use.”

“That sounds great, Emmanuel.” Emma smiles and thanks him once more before walking out of the room, saying hello to Anna before Anna starts her photoshoot. Not everyone is on the grounds yet, a lot of them still in Cincinnati or in Europe, so it’s nice to see a familiar face.

It’s even nicer to fall back on the bed in her hotel, which is ridiculously comfortable. _Thank God_.

“Emma, do you want to talk about your practice schedule for tomorrow?” David asks her from his spot on one of the sofas next to the bed. He should be in his own room, but her family doesn’t have boundaries. Neither do her friends. The fact that Ruby isn’t in here right now bothering Emma is a miracle.

Hopefully Mary Margaret did not let it slip what room Emma was in because neither Mary Margaret or Ruby can keep a secret.

“No, no, no. No more work talk tonight,” Emma insists as she inhales. She’s been breathing deeply all day, and her heartrate still hasn’t calmed down. At least her lungs didn’t flat out stop working. “I will see you tomorrow morning at nine ready to work, and then we can spend as much time as you want working on my serve.”

“You okay?” David asks.

Emma sits up and props herself up on her elbows, looking at her brother. “I’m fine. Just tired. You know how I am with plane rides. It messes my whole system up.”

David nods and stands from the couch, walking toward her before sitting down on the edge of the bed and placing his hand on her knee. “Mary Margaret and I are going out to dinner and then to do a little shopping. Do you want to come with us? It’s basically our pre-tournament ritual now.”

“No, I think I’m going to rest tonight. I’m sure Ruby, Marg, and I will go shopping several times over the next few weeks, but I want to spend tonight just clearing my mind and maybe watching the finals of Cincinnati if I’m up to it.”

“If you wanted to spend your night watching your boyfriend’s match, that’s all you had to say.”

“Shut up,” Emma laughs, pushing David away. “Go spend all your money on clothes and food.”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

David leaves, the door shutting behind him, and Emma sighs in relief. She didn’t know how much more lying she could do, and even though she does actually want to go shopping, she knows staying here is the best option.

Maybe it would be good to keep her mind occupied, though.

Emma turns on the television, searching the channels until she sees Killian move across the court. She doesn’t turn the volume up, not wanting to hear the insanity of the commentators, but she watches the back and forth smooth motion of his play. He’s been going through a rough patch, but watching him now makes her think he’s getting his form back to where it was. He’s been trying so damn hard, doing everything he can think of to better himself, and he deserves every good thing he works for.

Emma is desperate to be able to watch him play this final, desperate to hear his voice when he calls after his win.

The thing is that Emma is fatigued, and she doesn’t make it through the entire match. She falls asleep on top of the covers, only groggily waking up when the trophy ceremony is on. Killian is holding the microphone, his smooth accent coming through the TV. His vocabulary is more colorful after he’s spent a lot of time back in England, and since he’s been there for most of the past month and a half, he might as well be right out of Downton Abbey.

Emma, admittedly, is falling into some British stereotypes when she does know better than that.

“I wanted to thank all of my loved ones, the ones who could be here and the ones who couldn’t. Many of you know I lost my brother the week after I won my first major, and while that win will always be the most special for me because Liam was there to see it, every win since then has been a dedication to him. I have been struggling lately, so standing here in front of you all…well, it feels bloody good to feel the love. You are all a good lot, and I cannot wait to be here next year. Hopefully, I’ll see some of you in New York as well.”

Killian’s voice started shaking toward the end, his emotion obvious, and Emma can feel the tears in her eyes forming. Once they start, they don’t stop, and Emma is not someone who usually sobs uncontrollably.

Well, she wasn’t. Now is a different story.

Once crowned the Ice Queen of the Court, Emma never showed emotions. That was years ago, when she was trying to prove something to herself and to the man who had told her she would never amount to anything without him. Now, she knows there’s power in showing emotions. It’s human, and while sometimes she wouldn’t like to be, Emma knows she is human.

She also knows that the test she took this morning was very clear in its results.

Emma is pregnant.

She’s twenty-six years old, at the top of her game, five days out from playing the last major of the season that she desperately wants to win to defend her title from last year, and she doesn’t know if she can even play.

She also has no idea how she’s going to tell David.

Or Killian.

She has to tell Killian, and if this were another life, she imagines they would both be excited. It’s not another life, though. It’s one where her career could be over and where her life is going to be invaded by the press. They don’t even know she and Killian are dating, and if they did, she’d never get any privacy. If they knew she was having a kid with him, Emma would have to board the windows in her house and never leave.

This isn’t what she wanted when Ruth had her pick up a racket. This isn’t what she dreamed about. She dreamed about the game, about the discipline, about having a passion that was hers and hers alone that no social worker or abusive foster father could take from her. How did it all get so twisted and turned upside down to the point where if she goes to the grocery store, she’s not sure if it will be a normal trip or if she’ll have photographers chasing her down the street, nearly colliding with her car as she tries to escape them all.

She’s going to vomit.

-/-

Killian is practicing four courts down from her, and it’s distracting her. They texted a little last night after his initial short phone call, but it wasn’t a lot. He’s going to want to talk. They haven’t seen each other in two weeks, and as much as she just wants to wrap her arms around him and hug him, never letting go, the last thing she wants right now is to talk to him.

She is currently wondering if security would let her climb through the crowd of fans to get away from Killian, but she imagines that won’t happen. That would also bring more attention to her, and that’s the last thing she wants.

Maybe, just maybe, if she slips out when he’s in the midst of practice, he won’t notice her. It looks like Nemo and Rob are about to have him do some net drills, and if Emma walks behind David and Ruby, she may just make it out without him noticing. He’s got practice to focus on, and it wouldn’t make sense for him to stop to talk to her.

“I swear to you, the summer months do good things for that man.”

“Huh?”

“Jones.” Ruby nudges Emma’s side with her elbow as their coaches gather up their things. “He gets so pale when we’re in Europe for months, but each summer he gets this tan that makes me want to climb all over him.”

“Rubes,” Emma laughs, glancing up at all the fans who can definitely hear Ruby, and takes a big gulp of her water. She’s dripping in sweat, probably a little dehydrated, and she doesn’t know how she feels about Ruby talking about her boyfriend that way…not that Ruby knows about any of that, which is just another lie Emma feels guilt over. “Hush.”

“What? It’s true.”

“It is, but people can hear us.”

Ruby waves her away. “I don’t care. I have thirsted about him online. It’s not anything scandalous. You ready to go sign some autographs?”

“I’m ready to get out of this heat.”

  
  
“Amen to that,” Ruby laughs.

They move away from the practice courts, everyone else moving on with their practices, and are ushered to the autograph area. There’s a packed crowd full of people, and while Emma knows most of them are probably not here for she and Ruby since Emma never expects people to show up like this for her, they still walk over and sign a few of those giant balls and some shirts and hats. Ruby manages to sign this guy’s chest, and Emma has to hide her snicker at that. She’s almost finished and about to hand the giant marker back when she sees this dad with a baby strapped into him. The baby is dressed as a giant tennis ball, and as ridiculous as it looks, it sends Emma’s heart racing.

Emma drops the marker, and it rolls into the crowd, getting lost among the people. Quickly, she turns and moves away, asking the security to escort her to the locker rooms. She needs out of here as fast as possible, so she takes a shower as fast as she can and gets dressed before getting stretched out and then meeting David by the cars that will take them back to the hotel. He talks business, but she doesn’t listen.

She can’t.

Her mind is all over the place, but really, she knows it’s only focusing on one thing.

Emma has no freaking clue what to do.

She can’t be pregnant. She can’t. There’s no way it’s possible. She’s on birth control, they use condoms. They’re as careful as they can be in every way. It’s physically impossible for her to be pregnant. She can’t wrap her head around how it’s possible, and if she spends all of her time trying to figure that out, she won’t focus on all of the other things.

Like how she doesn’t know how to have a baby or be a mom. How she doesn’t know if she wants that.

How this is going to end her career, and she really, really likes her job. It’s her entire life, and she doesn’t want it to end. She’s too young. She has so much time left, but very few women have ever come back from having a baby and been back at the top of the game. Emma is at the top right now, and she doesn’t want to leave. 

She can’t.

How is she supposed to?

How is she supposed to deal with a pregnancy? With Killian? She loves him in a way she never thought she would love anyone, but they’re not ready for this. They don’t live together, they often don’t see each other for months at a time, and they’ve never discussed having kids. It’s always seemed too far off, too distant.

It’s never been a concern for right now…until now.

Shit.

Emma moves through the motions for the rest of the day. She eats her meals, continues to do her stretches, and she spends awhile going shopping on her own, wandering in and out of some of her favorite NYC spots. It’s a city that never runs out of new places, and exploring it takes her minds off things.

At least for a little while.

Because eventually she’s having to walk back into her hotel suite, and it’s full of people. David, Mary Margaret, Rob, Nemo, Ariel, and Eric are all sitting in the living room area watching TV while eating dinner, and she wasn’t expecting that. She was expecting them to all be in their own rooms minding their own business, but she should have known better. Emma rarely gets any time alone during tournaments, especially grand slams.

“Your meal is on the counter, hon,” Mary Margaret tells her. “Did you find some good stuff?”

Emma holds up her bags. “Yeah, I’ll just put them up then come out here and join you guys. Where’s Killian?”

“Bedroom,” Ariel says. “He’s doing some press calls.”

Emma nods and walks through the living area into her bedroom. She quietly opens the door, careful not to disturb Killian, and puts all of her bags down on a little coffee table before making her way to where Killian is sitting on the bed. She joins him, and he lifts his arm for her to settle in next to him. She does, listening to him give a perfunctory answer to a question about last night’s win and the quick turnaround, and for a few moments, everything is normal.

There’s nothing to stress about other than the tournament, and Emma likes it that way.

When he ends the call, Emma tilts her head up to him, and Killian tilts down, quickly kissing her one, two, three, four times, lingering for a long time at the end before he pulls away and runs his thumb under her eye.

“You look exhausted, love,” he says quietly.

“What I always love to hear from you.”

He chuckles and dips down again to press his mouth to her forehead. “Beautiful but exhausted. Did David work you too hard today?”

“I’m a little fatigued, but I’m fine. Shopping really revitalized me, I think. You should see the new boots I got.”

“Are they those delicious ones that come up to your thighs?”

Emma huffs and slaps his chest before resting her head in the nook of his shoulder. He smells like his laundry detergent. Ariel must have sent his clothes to get washed when they arrived this morning.

“No, but I did get a pair I think you’ll like.” She adjusts herself again, wrapping her leg over his, and Killian’s hand reaches down her back. His fingers inch up underneath her shirt until they’re on her skin, and he’s so warm she could cry. There she goes wanting to do that stupid thing again. “How was your day?”

“Good, good. Had a nice flight, have been doing media shit and stuff, had a little bit of a practice which I know you saw.” He nudges her, and instead of responding, she buries her head further into him. Suddenly, the fatigue is back in full force, and all she wants is to go to sleep. “You alright, Swan?”

“Fine. Just glad you’re here.”

“Why, sweetheart, you might give a man the idea that you fancy him.”

“Well, we can’t have that, can we?”

“No. It would send all of the wrong ideas.”

“How shameful. I think we’re supposed to be eating dinner with our teams.”

Killian pulls her closer. “They can wait a little while longer, love.”

Emma nearly tells him right then and there. She nearly tells him of how her period is weeks late, of how she has multiple positive tests hiding in a drawer in her bathroom back in Florida, of how scared she is right now.

She nearly tells him everything.

But she can’t. The words won’t come, and the bravery she needs won’t either. Instead, that little voice that isn’t often a visitor anymore shows up, knocking on the door and letting itself in without her permission. It tells her that Killian will leave, that he won’t be happy, that everything good in her life is being stripped away from her.

It’s telling her lies, and Emma is likely going to listen to every damn word.

-/-

She calls her doctor the next day from the bathroom. She’s got the shower and the sink running to make it as loud as possible, and she asks her if she can still play, if it’ll hurt the baby, what she’s supposed to do. Her doctor wants her to get an exam past her usual physicals, so Emma sets one up with a doctor she’s never been to before. It’s a lot to handle, especially since she has to slip away from a million people to do it, but she manages.

And she is definitely pregnant.

She can also play safely, but she has to be careful not to overdo it or get too hot. It’s a long list of recommendations, and she’s going to follow every single one. It’s the least she can do, and Emma tries her hardest to put her mind in tournament mode. The only thing in front of her is her job and the defense of her title.

If only her mind was able to hyper-focus like that.

-/-

Emma vomits for the first time before her first match, and she nearly pulls out of the tournament right then and there. She doesn’t, the will to win and prove herself stronger than her body attacking her, but she damn well wants to.

She vomits again in the middle of the match. Luckily she made it inside for a bathroom break before she did, but it throws her off as she tries to down her energy drink to give herself some more fuel. This whole being pregnant thing is fucked up, and she isn’t a fan.

-/-

Keeping things normal gets more difficult the more time goes on. She doesn’t have as much energy in practices, which frustrates her, her matches are all struggles, and she’s constantly having to tell people that she’s fine, that it’s all fine. The pundits on the internet don’t make anything better because they’re rightfully talking about how much she sucks, so she deletes all the apps on her phone so she can’t look. Mary Margaret will post social media stuff. She already mostly does during tournaments anyway.

-/-

Emma isn’t really sleeping. She’s exhausted, but she can’t sleep. Every time the comforter is pulled or the mattress shifts with Killian’s movement, she’s jolted awake, her heart going crazy.

Lying used to be much easier for her. All of her relationships in the past have been full of lies, mostly half truths more likely, both from her and her partner. This one isn’t like that, and the guilt is eating away at her.

“Go to sleep,” Killian mumbles, moving behind her and wrapping his arm around her stomach. He pulls her closer and kisses the back of her neck before pulling back and moving more into his own space. She can feel the heat of him, the pressure of his hand still on her, and she cannot sleep for his hand rests on the side of her stomach, moving up and down with each breath she takes.

What the hell is she going to do?

What the hell are _they_ going to do?

-/-

Her legs are like boulders, and they keep pulling her down. She can’t push off them as much as she wants to, serving is difficult when she’s so damn fatigued that she doesn’t even want to walk, and Emma knows she’s going to lose before she ever steps foot on the court. Never before as she had that thought, but in the third round of the US Open, she loses.

Badly.

Really, really badly.

And in the press conference, she listens to question after question about what went wrong, why her footwork was so bad, why she couldn’t get her serve in. It’s question after question about why she was so bad, and Emma is having a hard time keeping it all together, especially when someone rolls off a stat about how this is the earliest loss for a defending champion in over a decade.

“Records are meant to be broken, I guess,” Emma mumbles into the mic.

The press laughs at that, but the reporter keeps going. “Seriously, aren’t you disappointed? You don’t have anything to attribute to this loss? An injury? What about your personal life? Is there anything going on there?”

Emma clenches her teeth. This is one of those times when she wants to take the fine and be done with it, but she can’t lose that much money. Her head won’t let her, not when she knows what it’s like not to have any of it. And not when she knows that’ll cause her trouble too.

“I like to think I have a pretty good relationship with you guys,” Emma starts, anger and frustration coursing through her veins. “I answer your questions, even when you ask me the same ones every week, and I like to think I do it with a smile. But I’m tired, and you’re here to ask me about my tennis, not my personal life. Some players are open with things like that, others aren’t, and if you want to do your job, you should be open to that. Magda played better than me today. Plain and simple. The questions should be about what she did right, not what I did wrong, so if you want to talk to me about that, go ahead.”

No one raises their hand to speak, so the moderator has no one to call on. Emma nods and stands from the chair on shaky legs before leaving the press room and walking down the hallway until she’s in the locker room. It’s full of people right now, but she finds solace in her locker as she lets out a small sob, the wood on either side of her shielding her face from view.

What a crappy day that she knows isn’t going to get any better when David gets down here.

Killian’s got a match later today, and she hopes he wins. If he doesn’t, misery does love company.

Emma gathers her things, stuffing them all into one of her bags, and pulls her credentials lanyard over her neck. She doesn’t want to stay to shower or eat or watch any of the other matches. Depending on how long Killian wins, she’ll stay in the city, maybe come back to the tournament site to train, but she wants out of here.

She wants her secret bathroom icing and a lot of alcohol that she can’t have.

She wants her mind to turn off.

Emma slings her bags over her shoulders, closes her locker, and she starts walking away until she feels her legs buckle a little. It’s not the normal post-match kind of fatigue, especially when she got swept off the court in a little over an hour, and Emma has to steady herself on a bench. No one around her notices, but Emma feels like the room is spinning. Every bad feeling she’s had since arriving in New York is coming to rear its ugly head, and she forces herself to sit down, heavy bags dropping to the ground around her.

This is not okay. She is not okay.

“You alright, Emma?” Anna asks, her figure blurry in Emma’s eyes.

“Yeah,” Emma lies. “I didn’t cool down properly is all.

“You sure? You look like you’re going to be sick.”

“I’m fine. I just need a moment to take it all in, you know? I’ll feel better in a few minutes. Can you get me a water?”

Anna nods and turns away, jogging to the other side of the locker room where water is stocked, and she brings Emma back a bottle. She quickly drinks it, and it’s like liquid gold on her tongue. She downs another bottle right after, and she’s taking so long to leave the locker room that David sends Mary Margaret inside to get her. Mary Margaret takes one look at Emma still sitting on the bench, and somehow Emma knows that Mary Margaret knows.

“You need to eat,” Mary Margaret insists. “Do you need help walking out of here?”

Emma shakes her head and stands, her legs still unstable beneath her, but she’s slowly able walk herself out of the locker room and the tunnels underneath the stadium to the carpool. There’s some administrative stuff that has to be taken care of, but Mary Margaret handles it like the pro she is before basically strapping Emma into the car. None of them speak on the ride back to the hotel. David tries to talk about the match every few minutes, but Mary Margaret shushes him at each attempt. It’d be nice if Emma wasn’t so concerned about the fact that someone else knows about this secret she’s hiding.

-/-

“Did you eat the food I brought you earlier?” Mary Margaret asks as she pushes Emma’s hair off her forehead.

Emma nods and snuggles further into the blanket. The soothing sounds of a ball against a racket and a long, deep grunt come from the TV, and with one eye, Emma watches Killian play. He’s winning, thank goodness, and she appreciates the normalcy of it.

“A little bit,” Emma murmurs.

“You need to eat more. Your body is not how it usually is. Your diet needs to change a little. You’ve got – ”

“I know. I talked to a doctor and made sure it was safe to play before I did. I’ve taken all the precautions, but I feel like shit. I don’t want to eat. I want to sleep and wallow and pretend none of this is happening.”

Mary Margaret strokes Emma’s hair once more, and it sends a chill down her spine. “Have you told Killian?”

Emma hesitates, but she’s so tired she answers honestly. “No.”

“Emma…”

“Please don’t lecture me, Marg. I know I have to tell him, but I don’t know how, okay? It’s not exactly like asking him if he wants to go on a week-long vacation? It’s a lifetime commitment to a kid and to me. That’s a lot for one guy to handle.”

“This is Killian we’re talking about. He loves you. He’ll be happy. Shocked, maybe, but happy. He is not going to be happy if he finds out you kept this from him.”

“I know,” Emma whispers. “I just need some time because I’m terrified of what’s going to happen next.”

“It’ll be okay. I promise.”

Emma falls asleep with Mary Margaret stroking her hair, and she wakes to find that it’s Killian doing it now. He’s looking down at her with these ridiculously big blue eyes, and she’s always loved those about him. Even before she knew him, she knew he had these gorgeous eyes, ones full of kindness and scandal all wrapped up into one. She wonders if their baby will have his eyes and…well, that’s the first time she’s had any positive thought about the baby, and if she wasn’t so exhausted, it would make her grin.

It’s nice to know there are positives, though.

The baby could have Killian’s eyes, his smile, his laugh. The baby could be a lot like him, a lot like her too, but hopefully only in the good ways. She’s got too many stubborn, obnoxious traits, and the baby will likely get every one of those.

At least she can also blame those on Killian.

“You feeling any better, love?” Killian keeps pushing her hair off her face, and she never wants him to stop.

“No.”

“What’s wrong? The loss? Do you have a cold? Is there anything you need?”

She shakes her head and moves closer to him, welcoming the warmth even as her own body starts to heat up. Emma knows she has to tell him. Every day that she waits is a day where something can go wrong, but God, this is her waking nightmare.

“I need you to not be upset with me when I tell you something,” Emma whispers.

Killian arches a brow. “Now how could I ever be upset with you?”

Emma chuckles. _Oh boy, he’s got no clue_. “I’ve got a long list of times you’ve been upset with me.”

“I’ve forgotten every one except for your penchant for leaving sweaty clothes on the floor. That one I will never forget.”

Emma huffs and slaps his side, but she doesn’t sit up, doesn’t move. She’s safe underneath the covers, and even though that is a stupid thing to think, it’s what she has to use right now to keep her sane.

“I’m pregnant,” Emma says so quietly she’s not sure she actually said it. “I don’t know how it happened. I can’t figure it out. We’re always careful. We take every precaution, and we barely even see each other this time of year. I don’t…I don’t know, Killian. I don’t know how it happened, and I don’t know how I’m going to handle it. I’m not going to be able to play, and I’m going to lose all my sponsorships. I’m going to have nothing to do, and I just…I don’t know how to be a mom, and I don’t even know if you want to be a dad. How the fuck are we supposed to be parents?”

“How far along are you?” he asks, his voice also barely above a whisper.

“About eight weeks.”

“And you’re healthy? The baby is healthy?”

“Yeah. I mean, I feel like crap, but we’re both fine. I talked to a doctor before the tournament, and she said I was fine to play.” He nods and hums, and Emma keeps waiting for him to say something else, to have some kind of reaction. He never has much of one. His hand keeps moving through her hair, and if she wasn’t sure she had spoken now, she would think she imagined that. “Is that it? You don’t have anything else to say?”

Killian shifts and dips his head until he’s kissing her, soft, warm, and a little too minty for her taste, but it’s familiar. It’s something she’s felt thousands of times, and she likes that. Something being familiar still isn’t a thing she’s used to, let alone someone, and it’s nice to have things she can count on when the world is unraveling into a messy pile of mismatched thread.

“Bloody hell, I’m terrified,” he says against her mouth, but he kisses her again before she can say her rebuttal. “I’m also thrilled. It’s a fucking brutal combination, and I can’t imagine how you’ve been feeling, how you _are_ feeling.”

Emma should feel the tension release from her shoulders, and it does a little bit. It’s nice to hear that Killian isn’t running for the hills, though. That’s at least one good thing going in her favor.

“Terrified, pretty much. That’s the only emotion going on in my head. A lot of anxiety too. Fear, which is a lesser version of terrified. A lot of uncertainness.” Emma shrugs and moves further away from Killian. “Guilt. I feel a lot of guilt. I’ve spent my entire life wondering about the mom who didn’t want me, and for the week I’ve known about this kid, I haven’t known if I wanted them. Does that make me – ”

“Hey, hey, hey,” he interrupts, cupping her cheek and pressing another kiss to her brow, “none of that now. You are not your mum, love, and you are not a bad mother or a bad person for not knowing if you’re excited about a pregnancy. I obviously am not capable of experiencing it, but I imagine a lot of mums out there feel exactly the way you do. We got the worst card when it comes to family, but if you want, I think we can start over on that. You, me, and the babe. Records are meant to be broken. We can break the string of shitty parents.”

“Yeah?”

“Oh, absolutely.” His thumb runs under her eye, wiping up a tear she hadn’t realized had fallen. “I’ve been waiting my entire life to find someone as witty and wonderful and kind and strong as you. This baby gets to know you from the start. What a wonderful gift that we will only fuck up every fifth or so day.”

Emma scoffs and pushes at him again. He pulls her back, and she lets him. She’s still exhausted and terrified. None of that has changed even with his words. What has changed is that there’s this seedling of happiness sneaking in and planting itself, giving it the ability to continue to grow the more time she realizes there can be and is good in this situation they’ve found themselves in.

“You think we’re only going to mess up every five days?” she asks after they sit in silence for a little while.

“I think neither of us have a clue as to what we’re doing, but we’ll figure it out. All of it. We’ll figure out how to be parents, how to still be together, how to keep our baby safe and private from this insane world we live in. We’ll figure out how to get you back in the game because, my darling, if there’s anyone who can come back, it’s you.”

Emma nods, and the sleep starts to collect at the corners of her eyes, tugging them closed as she leans into Killian, using his chest as a slightly uncomfortable pillow.

“No matter what happens,” Killian continues, rubbing his hand down her back, “I will always, always be by your side, Swan. By the kid’s too. Do you think they’ll be good at tennis?”

“If they get my genes.”

“Says the woman who lost today.” She pinches his side, and he yelps. Gotcha, Jones. “Too soon?”

“Too soon,” Emma mumbles. “I only lost because I’m fatigued.”

“If that’s what you have to tell yourself.”

“Go to your room, KJ,” Emma growls. “Wouldn’t want something horrible to happen to you so that you also lose early.”

“Ah, the mother of my child is so full of love and grace. How does she do it?”

Emma props her head up. “Any regrets about that? Me being the mother of your child?”

“Not a one.”

“Good.”


	5. Chapter Five: 2015 (One)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: This should be the happiest he’s been in years, but it’s not. He and Emma already had wildly different schedules, but now that she’s no longer on tour, it feels like they barely see each other. When they do, it’s for a day here, a week there, two if they’re lucky. That’s no way to live when his girlfriend is carrying their baby and freaking out about it more than he is. 
> 
> If only he could have a bloody break from tennis to focus on his personal life for once. 
> 
> He’s got to be careful what he asks for.

**November 2014.**

Shit.

“This is bad,” Rob says from across the room, as if that isn’t the most obvious bit of information on the planet right now. “What are you going to do, mate?”

He wants to do a myriad of things, but he can’t right now.

“Play my match and then call Emma and make sure she’s okay.” Killian shrugs and bends down at the knees to squat against the wall. He hits the timer on his phone for a minute, and he tries to focus on that instead of the news Ariel just texted him.

He’s not doing great at that. All these years of being able to block life out before a match have suddenly deteriorated.

“Do you want to call her now?” Robin prods.

“She won’t answer if I call now. Watch.” Killian exits out of the timer and hits Emma’s number on his phone. It rings and rings and rings, and she never answers. He stands from his squat and tries again. Still, no answer. “Emma, darling,” he speaks into the phone, “I’m about to play, so I can’t talk to you anytime soon. I love you. Everything is alright, yeah? We knew this was going to happen at some point, but I’m sorry it happened this way. I’ll call you as soon as I can. You and the babe stay safe, alright?”

“Do you think that’s going to do any good?”

“No,” Killian answers honestly, “it’s not. She’s going to be freaking the hell out, and nothing is going to calm her down, certainly not me.”

He thumbs through his phone once more, looking through his texts and clicking on the links Ariel sent him. It’s pictures of Emma in her neighborhood, which is supposed to be private. That is a lie, though, because someone managed to take pictures of Emma walking to get her mail, her clothes tight enough that the roundness of her stomach is obvious, especially compared to how she usually looks.

It’s not good. Not good at all.

After the US Open, Emma stopped playing, telling the WTA she was out for the rest of the season on injury. A few people know because of how often Emma has to get drug tested, but it’s all been a well-kept secret.

That is no longer true.

_Bloody hell._

“Mr. Jones,” the tournament director says when he pokes his head in the warm-up room, “it’s time to go.”

  
“Aye, I’ll be right there.” He stands from his squat and stretches out his legs, jumping up and down a few times before grabbing his racket bag from the floor. “Rob, get Ariel to try calling Emma while I’m playing. She’s more likely to talk to her than any of us.”  
  


“I’ll try.” Rob nods and claps his hand over Killian’s back. “Good luck in your match. I know it’s a rubber, but don’t be a loser.”

Killian blows air out of his nose with his laugh. “I’ll try not to be a loser. My fucking motto for life.”

-/-

Killian isn’t a loser that day, but he is out of the tournament. He hates the season-ending final, how it’s a round robin event. He lost the same amount of matches as the man who got to advance to the semi-finals but because he lost three more games, he’s packing his bags to go home.

(Though, he didn’t hate it when he won it years ago, but now is not the time to think of his own hypocrisy.)

To his home here in London, half an hour away from the tournament, instead of back in America with Emma. It’s been odd staying here for the past two weeks. For so long, he was used to living here alone. Sure, Ariel and Rob would pop in, especially after Milah, but it was his home. It was a place to sleep and shower and watch television between having to constantly be on the road and in the air. Then Emma came along and though she’s here less frequently, she’s made her mark.

Some of her clothes litter his closet, her mugs fill his cabinets, blankets she has bought are in the baskets in his den. She hasn’t been here since mid-September when they needed to get away for a little while, but she’s still everywhere. Killian has been finding her bobby pins in his carpet the entire time he’s been here.

The only thing of Emma’s that isn’t here is Emma.

The sun has set outside, darkness taking over, and though it’s past midnight in America, Killian presses Emma’s name on his phone as he sets the timer on the oven for his dinner.

“Hello?”

“Now, tell me why you’ll answer your phone at one in the morning but not during daylight hours?”

“Because I’m a stubborn ass with no real sense of time.”

Killian huffs and moves to his living room, plopping down on the couch. “Now, I thought that was me.”

“It is. We both are. It’s why we’re dating.”

“Is that the only reason?”

“Well, I could say other things, but I’m trying to work on my dirty jokes, trying to say fewer of them.”

“Oh, you should never do that. I like when you’re dirty.” Emma’s silent on the other end of the line, and Killian waits for her to speak, to make another joke, to ask him if he could litter this conversation with innuendos. When she doesn’t, he decides it’s better to bite the bullet now than to drag it out. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“I want to change what I was wearing to get the mail this morning,” Emma says through gritted teeth. “I don’t know how I could have been so damn stupid.”

“It’s a private area. You thought you were safe. It’s understandable, love. Don’t beat yourself up about it. You were going to have to tell everyone eventually.”

“Eventually being the key word.” She whistles, and if he had to guess, she’s sitting in bed with a tub of icing in her lap and one of her favorite shows on the television. She’ll beat herself up about the icing tomorrow even if she shouldn’t. “Mary Margaret took my phone for a little while so I couldn’t check anything online. That’s why I didn’t answer you when you called earlier. It’s been…a day. I’m sorry you didn’t make it to the semi-finals.”

“Yeah, me too,” he tells her, allowing himself to wallow for a moment. “I get to come home to you sooner, though.”

“I’ve saved the tree for you to help me put up. And Mary Margaret has started on the sides for Thanksgiving. There’s going to be so much food for you to pig out on before off-season training starts.”

He can hear the smile now. Good.

“There’s nothing I’m looking forward to more. I’ve heard there’s such a thing as a dad bod, and I fully intend on getting one this holiday season.”

Emma blows air out her nose. “You and I both know that’s not true. You’re too vain for that.”

“I am devilishly handsome, aren’t I?”

“I’ll let you keep thinking that. Killian?”

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

“I’m fine. I mean, I’ll be fine. This entire…situation has sucked, but I’m slowly coming around to it. What happens, happens, and I’ll deal with it. If I can get through half the things I’ve gotten through, I can get through a human being growing inside of me and the world knowing about it. I think the hardest part is how bored I am. Do you have any idea what it’s like to constantly be on the move and then for it to suddenly stop?”

“No, I don’t.” He pulls a blanket over his lap to warm him. “I hope I never find out.”

“I hope you don’t either.” Emma yawns, and the corners of Killian’s lips tug up. Maybe this means she’ll try to sleep instead of staying up worrying all night. “I think I’m going to go to sleep. Or at least try.”

“Goodnight, Swan. I love you.”

“Yeah, you too.”

-/-

Killian gets two weeks off in Florida for Thanksgiving and to have a break from training. It’s lovely to do nothing if only for a moment (he would be horrible having to take the extended break like Emma) and to spend it with Emma and her family, but then it’s back to practice and tweaking his game during the off-season.

Rob and Nemo work him harder than they ever have, bemoaning him about his slow legs and his age – he’s nearly twenty-nine, which was once considered ancient in his sport – but he keeps pushing through. Hours are spent on the court and in the gym, and the rest of his days are spent with Emma, going on walks and watching TV in their house. She’s still practicing and going to the gym, even if those are modified to how they were before, and if Killian closes his eyes, it’s almost like normal.

But then, slowly, December passes, Christmas lights everywhere fading a little every day, and Killian is packing several suitcases for the month he’s going to spend in Australia. Three years ago, Australia is where it all began for them, and it’s odd to be going without Emma.

She’s made a rule that most of their conversations have to be about things other than the baby. Part of it is because Mary Margaret overloaded Emma with baby talk. It was constantly about names and clothing and what color the nursery should be painted. If it wasn’t that, it was book after book about pregnancy, hormone changes, and the many processes that happen when giving birth.

Even for Killian, who isn’t particular about medical procedures, that was too much. He loves Mary Margaret as much as Emma does, and while she’s great most of the time, it all has been a little much.

The media attention has been too.

Thus, Emma’s rules. Their lives are supposed to go on as normal with the occasional conversation about the baby, usually when it’s absolutely necessary or when it’s late at night and they’re in bed or lounging on the couch watching TV and Killian’s hand finds Emma’s ever-growing stomach.

He thinks that’s what’s so bloody difficult for him as he zips up his suitcase. He’s going to be gone for a month, and in that month, everything can and will change.

Killian is missing seeing his child grow and missing being with his girlfriend, and as much as he loves what he does, as passionate as he is about having the fucking best job in the world, he would trade it all to not have to give up so much of their lives.

Emma would never let him.

She’d slap him if she knew he was even having these thoughts.

“Do you like this jacket?” Emma asks as she shuffles through their closet next to him. “I mean, I like that it’s red, but do you think it’s too bold?”

Killian turns and looks, glancing up and down at Emma. “I like the red leather.”

Emma nods and smiles, looking at herself in the mirror and tugging the coat over her stomach. “One day again, it’ll zip up.” She rolls her eyes and then begins to take it off, but Killian stops and walks toward her, running his fingers over the lapels until she’s flush against him.

“One day,” he echoes before dipping his head to her neck and running his lips across her jaw, “but for now, I think it’s fine to not have you covered up.”

Emma cranes her neck and makes a nose he’s going to memorize and take with him all the way to Australia. “That was a horrible line. You need to be a better flirt. This isn’t working for me at all.”

His hand falls from her shoulder and slowly makes its way to her ass before he has a firm grip. She makes that noise again, and Killian smirks against her neck.

“Well,” he drawls, making his accent as thick as he can as he nibbles at her ear, “I have forty-five minutes before I have to go. What do you say I use about fifteen of those focusing on you?”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Oh, absolutely. I want to take in as much of you as I can while I can.”

“Dirty,” he whispers in her ear before kissing her and walking her out of the closet and back to the bedroom.

-/-

**January 2015.**

**ES:** Good luck today, babe! Or tomorrow. I’m not really sure what time it is in Australia, but I do know I will not be awake for your match.

Killian laughs at his phone. He’s been here three weeks, and Emma still hasn’t gotten the time difference down. He figured she wouldn’t be too bad with it since she makes this trip every year, but according to David, he changed all of Emma’s clocks and she never really knows the difference after the first two days.

It’s technically yesterday afternoon back home, or at least it was when she sent this, and he texts her back, thanking her and promising to call after his practice.

He’s got the first night session match in RLA tonight for his quarterfinal match, and if that weren’t three in the morning back home, he knows Emma would be up for it.

He wouldn’t ask anyone to be awake at that ungodly hour for him.

“Have you finished your hair yet?” Ariel asks.

She’s sitting on his bed in his hotel room, has been for an hour even though he definitely did not invite her over, and he’s had to listen to her rambling about sponsorship pitches and contract negotiations and all the things he hates the entire time. So he’s spending a little extra time messing with his hair and shaving his beard. She’s used to this, of course, and probably knows the exact amount of time it’ll take him to get ready better than he does.

“Not quite, love.”

“You know you’re going to put it under a hat and get it all sweaty, right? It doesn’t matter what it looks like.”

Killian shakes his head and puts his razor down before walking out of the bathroom to peek his head over at Ariel. “Are you really that bored that you can’t find something else to do other than bother me?”

She sits up and props herself on her elbows, her red hair flowing down her back, but a small bit gets stuck in her eye. She quickly blows it off. “It’s a big match day, and you’re nervous. I’ve been sent here to keep you occupied so you can’t think about how nervous you are or how much you miss Emma or how much you want to write an entire book of poetry about how much you love her.”

“I have never said that last part,” he counters.

“But you’ve thought it, Mr. Darcy. You and your big ole heart and your obsession with your girlfriend and your baby.”

Killian chuckles and leans against the wall. He crosses his arms over his chest and arches a brow. “Am I not supposed to be in love with my girlfriend and our child?”

Ariel shrugs. “I just think that for someone who loves a woman that much, there might be a ring and a question rattling around somewhere.”

His eyes roll, and outwardly, he deals with the question with annoyance. Inwardly, his heart quickens and he thinks some things he’s been trying not to.

Some things that, well, shake him to his core and make his breathing a little more difficult than normal.

He and Emma have talked about marriage, but it’s always been brief, seemingly inconsequential. It’s something they’d consider a long way down the road, maybe when their lives are normal, when they can profess their love to each other without any professional blowbacks.

With how the game is progressing and how long players are starting to play now, and more than just the top guys, he doesn’t know when that’ll be.

Killian loves Emma. Emma loves him. They’ve both made each other better people and committed to each other and to their unborn daughter, and Killian doesn’t see that ever changing, marriage license or not.

“A,” he whispers, his fingers tapping over his bicep, “Whatever happens with us is as much up to Emma as it is to me. We like how things are now, and I can write a book of poetry on our love no matter if she is my wife or not.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I just want to go to that wedding. I feel like it would be the party of a lifetime.”

“Tell you what, I’ll take you to the party of a lifetime when I win this damn tournament. We’ll go clubbing like we both don’t go to bed for ten when we can.”

Ariel winks. “You’ve got yourself a deal. Now, come on, we’ve got things to do, and you’re making us late with all your unnecessary primping.”

“Because I’m that damn good-looking and should accentuate it when I can.”

Ariel rises from the bed wand comes over to pat his shoulder. “Whatever you tell yourself to sleep that night.”

-/-

Killian runs through his practice with ease, and he feels good. He’s seeing the ball clearly, doesn’t feel any aches in his body, and though his opponent has handed Killian’s ass to him on a silver platter many times, he’s feeling good about tonight.

Until he isn’t.

It’s the second set when it happens.

Killian is up a set and has two break points to solidify a lead when he’s running down a forehand and loses his footing on the court. His ankle is the first thing to twist, and before he can think, he’s propelling forward toward the ground.

For the entirety of his life, Killian has been told not to fall on his wrists. It’s the first thing any athlete learns. Hell, it’s the first thing anyone learns, but instinct takes over him in that moment. He’s trying to keep from landing flat on his face, and so he lands on his left wrist.

His fucking left wrist, which has caused him trouble his entire career.

Now, though, as he sits on his courtside chair and the tournament medical examiner touches him, he knows this is worse than any injury he’s had in the past.

Fucking hell, he has to pull out of the tournament.

He doesn’t know if he’s going to be able to play for the rest of the season.

Shit. 

Should have fallen on his face and knocked out his teeth. He could still play with no teeth.

-/-

“It’s a fracture,” a doctor tells him that night as he sits in a hospital bed in nothing but one of those awful paper gowns. “You’ll want to consult with your physicians back in Britain, but I’d say a ten-week recovery at the least, six months at most.”

“That’s not exactly a short time span,” Killian grumbles. “You can’t give me something more exact?”

He shrugs. “I think it’ll most likely be about three months for you, but you won’t know until you start playing again. It’s more the rehab than the recovery that I would worry about.”

  
“Thank you, Dr. Weissman,” Rob tells the doc, dismissing him before Killian can take the piss out of the man for doing his job. Dr. Weissman nods and leaves the room, and all that’s left are Killian, Rob, and Ariel. Nemo is back at the hotel, probably watching the video of Killian ruining their season over and over again. “How are you feeling, Jones?”

“Just peachy,” he lies, flashing them his brightest smile before it falls. He pushes his hair back and yanks at the strands, pulling hard enough for it to hurt. “Fuck.”

What has he done to himself?

People are playing longer now, but what if he isn’t one of those? What if this is the injury that begins the slow deterioration of his career? The one that whittles him away from a great player to a star trying too hard to hang onto his shine?

He hates himself for even thinking that because it’s conceited and self-loathing and all the other things he’s tried not to be lately. He was the one who had to talk Emma through something similar, to tell her that the pregnancy wouldn’t be the end of her career, that one day she’d be standing at the top of the podium again with a shiny trophy in hand.

It all felt so convincing when he was telling her that.

But he’s also an asshole who can seldom take his own advice.

And what Emma is going through is much harder than what he is, so how dare he even compare the two situations?

Seriously.

_Fuck._

-/-

**February 2015.**

David picks him up at the airport in Florida, but it could have been a stranger and Killian wouldn’t know the difference. He’s been moping on a plane for twenty-four hours and doesn’t notice much of anything.

That is until he walks in the front door of his home and is wrapped in the tightest embrace he’s ever felt. Emma, like always, smells of vanilla and flowers, and he inhales her scent. It’s been a month without it, and he never wants to lose it again. Her hand comes into his hair, scratching down to his skull, and she pulls him as close as possible, her stomach pressed between them. She’s seven months along now, was six when he left, and the difference feels almost impossible to describe.

He tries not to think of all he’s missed, not when he’s back in her arms once more.

What a beautiful place to be.

He’s thought that his world was falling apart, that he had no control over anything, and it was one disaster after another.

As his uninjured arm run up and down Emma’s back and he continues to breathe in her scent and her warmth, he’s reminded that his world, the most important one, is more solid than it’s been since he lost Liam.

If his brother could see him in this moment, even when his mind and body are at low points, Killian would hope that Liam would be proud of Killian’s accomplishments instead of disappointed in Killian’s failures.

“I missed you,” Emma whispers against his cheek.

“I missed you, too, Swan. You have no idea how much.”

“Are you okay?”

  
  
“I will be.” His hand comes to rest in her ponytail. “I promise I will be.”

-/-

The world seems to stop for the both of them, and it’s not just because Killian spends his first week at home moping in bed, watching more TV than he has in years. Emma joins him, lounging with her legs crossed over his, basically using his body to make herself comfortable when her back is sore, and if it weren’t for food delivery services, they likely wouldn’t eat. Well, at the very least, they wouldn’t eat any proper meals. Emma’s doctor wouldn’t like that.

Killian’s doctor, on the other hand, has encouraged him to stay active but to rest his wrist. He’s not supposed to pick up a racket except to lightly hit a few forehands, and he definitely isn’t supposed to do any weight work in the gym lest he wants his arms to become horribly unbalanced.

It’s a change in lifestyle, and Killian hates it.

He obviously still hates himself because he spends a hell of a lot of time online looking at articles and tweets about the Australian Open. Half of them are about him, half are about the eventually winners, and a small sprinkling are about how Emma couldn’t defend her title because of her pregnancy.

That sends him into another spiral, and in the darkness of their bedroom, he reads article after article about how Emma Swan will never come back to the game, about how she’s ruined her career, about how if she does come back, she shouldn’t have a protected ranking because pregnancy is not an injury and does not merit any help in building back a ranking.

Absolute bullshit.

How is the WTA the largest sports organization for women and yet it has no pregnancy protections for its players?

That sets him off more than anything else, and as Killian reads article after article and tweet after tweet, and he hopes to God that Emma hasn’t spent her nights reading this like he has.

What kind of darkness has he stumbled into, and how does he get out of it?

“Get up.”

Killian groans and rolls over, burying his face in his pillow and trying to go back to the sleep he didn’t know he’d fallen into. His head is screaming at him.

“KJ, get up.” He feels Emma’s hands on him, shaking his shoulders, but he ignores her. The last thing he wants to do is open his eyes and get out of bed. “My water broke.”

He immediately flips over and sits up, staring at Emma who is standing over the bed with her arms crossed over her chest. “Are you serious? What are you doing just standing there? Have you called your doctor? It’s too soon for your water to have broken.”

Her eyes roll. “My water did not break. It’s noon, and you’re still in bed. Get up.”

“Now, that’s just cruel. You nearly gave me a heart attack.”

“I didn’t expect for you to be coherent enough to really listen.” Emma sits down on the edge of the bed and leans in to kiss his cheek and brush his hair back. “I’m sorry if I scared you.”

“Now I’m never going to believe you if you tell me your water has broken.”

Emma shrugs. “Next time I say it, I promise I will mean it.” Her hands wander down his side, moving over his collarbones and through tufts of hair on his chest. She’s always fond of doing that. “Look, I get the moping and the internet doom scrolling. I’ve been through that, and I support you doing whatever you need to do.”

“I feel like there’s a but coming.”  
  
“But,” Emma continues, “this baby girl is coming in two months, possibly less, and I don’t know if you’ve looked in the nursery since you got home, but it’s all boxes and disassembled furniture.”

“You didn’t get to all that while I was gone?” She yanks on his hair, and he grits his teeth to keep from yelping. “Only teasing, love.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t get to it. All of this baby stuff freaks me out and after putting together one railing for the crib and having a hormonal meltdown because I didn’t want it to be my fault if the crib fell apart while she was sleeping in it, I stopped. Figured it’d be better if you were here.”

“So that it’d be my fault if the crib fell apart?”

“Exactly.” She tilts her head toward the bedroom door. “I made you coffee, so get your ass out of bed and lend me a hand.”

He raises his broken, wrapped up wrist. “Was that pun intended?”

“Believe it or not, no.” She leans in to kiss his cheek once more. “I’m not going to kick you while you’re down.”

“You’re just going to kick me out of bed.”

“Exactly.”

His legs slowly drag him out of bed and to the kitchen, where he takes the pain medication he’s allowed to take, downs some water, and drinks his coffee. It’ll be awhile before the caffeine and medication kick in, so he tries to blink himself awake to get rid of the sleepiness and the pain.

It doesn’t work.

He does, however.

Emma’s been up for awhile and has moved all the boxes in the nursery into their own sections. It’s just as chaotic as it was before, but it at least looks a little more put together. Killian settles down in front of the crib, reads through the instructions, and he starts piecing things together while Emma works on the dresser. She flits around the room, helping him when he needs it, and as much as he’d like to say they finish quickly, they don’t. It takes them all morning just to do those two pieces of furniture and for him to fix the roller on the glider, and he’s exhausted.

Maybe he can convince Emma to take a nap with him later.

After he exercises. He has to move a little today. His body hasn’t been this stiff on a non-tournament day in ages.

Okay, so maybe nap first, then exercise. That sounds like a better plan.

“What the bloody hell is this doing in here?” Killian asks. He bends down and picks up Emma’s gold medal, dangling it on his arm, which is a much safer space than the floor under a stack of books where it was.

“Oh, yeah,” Emma hums, “Mary Margaret wanted me to display that in here.”

“Why?”

“Well, she wanted me to put some of my trophies in here, but I said that was weird and probably a little dangerous. But then she suggested we do, like, this little wall collage of some things about us for her. That’s the achievement I’m proudest of, at least professionally, and I figured it would be kind of badass for my kid to know her mom was an Olympian.”

“Is,” Killian corrects while he walks toward Emma and tucks some strands of hair behind her ear. “Her mom is an Olympian. Present tense.”

Emma shakes her head and looks away, eyelids covering those beautiful green eyes of hers. “Was. I don’t know if I’ll ever get back to competition, Killian. I’ve been reading what exactly my body is going to go through, which, big mistake by the way, and I don’t know how I’m going to get back into competition shape to work my way back up to the top. I spent most of my life conditioning my body to be an athlete. I don’t think it knows how to be a mom and an athlete.”

“You’re always going to be an Olympian and an athlete,” he promises, meaning every word, “and it’s not going to be easy getting back. The cards are fucking stacked against you. But if there’s anyone who can persevere through hardship, it’s you. And me and the babe will be right here with you.”

“Except you’ll probably be back on tour traveling again. Hopefully your wrist will be healed soon, way before she comes.”

Killian leans forward and dips his head down to rest his forehead against Emma’s. “I’m staying with the two of you for as long as I can. Can’t get rid of me that easily, Swan. You’re stuck with me for life.”

“That isn’t as appealing sounding as you think it is.”

Killian tilts his head back with laughter before kissing Emma’s temple. He still hasn’t brushed his teeth this morning and has some major coffee breath. He’s surprised she hasn’t kicked him out of the house yet. She surely will if he attempts to kiss her.

“Let’s install these shelves and then go take a nap, yeah? Get rid of all our fears for a little while with sleeping. Maybe we’ll even go for a walk tonight since the neighborhood is now extra secure.”

“Sounds like a plan, KJ. Oh,” Emma gasps, moving away from him and reaching into a basket to pull out an old book. “I meant to tell you this, but I was shopping for books online and I found one from when I was a kid. I used to read it in the foster system, and I don’t know, it would bring me comfort. I thought maybe it would be a good name for her.”

She hands him the book, and he looks over the cover, reading the words written in large print.

“Olivia,” he whispers, sounding out the name on his tongue. “Olivia Swan-Jones.”

He can’t wait to meet her.

And he can’t wait for her to see what a badass her mom is, and how Emma is definitely going to stand at the top of that podium again.

Hopefully he is too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This may or may not be the last one of these (I haven't decided how much more I want to tell but am obviously open to more, especially a little more about Emma coming back to competition), so I thank you guys for coming along for this kind of funky ride where I took a one-shot and worked it backwards!
> 
> 🎾 🎾 🎾


	6. Chapter Six: 2015 (Two)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: Emma is exhausted. She’s actually always exhausted because of travel and time changes and the constant wear and tear on her body, but this is a new kind of exhausted. 
> 
> She’s a mom now, which still shocks her, and this is a new kind of exhaustion. She has to conquer training and parenthood, balancing everything as it threatens to all topple over and crush her. 
> 
> Watching Killian get to live out his dreams while she’s stuck at home certainly doesn’t help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise? lol. I know I told some of you guys I'd do some more of this verse on Emma's comeback, and I did write this back in *checks notes* November. But then I read over it and thought, "whoa, this reads very much like a woman who has been stuck inside her house with a baby for a year wrote it." And while that's true, I definitely wanted this to be more upbeat...at some points...than it was. So, anyhow, I reworked some of it, forgot about it, then remembered it. 
> 
> So here we are 😘

**July 2015.**

“Keep going!”

“Fuck you, David!”

“That’s the spirit!”

Emma holds her hand up and raises her middle finger at her brother, who has the audacity to laugh at her, and she keeps going, putting one leg in front of the other as she sprints across the court. Her sneakers squeak at each turn, and she wants to burn them so she never has to hear the sound again.

So she never has to do drills again either.

Back home, it’s over one hundred degrees out, humid too, and if she were having to train there, she’d be dead on the court, her body sweating and withering away into nothing. In London, it’s a pleasant seventy-five, but she feels like she’s in Florida.

It’s miserable.

Or maybe she’s just that out of shape. Yeah, she’s definitely that out of shape.

David has Emma keep running before laying out the rope ladder and having her practice her footwork. It’s not hard and is something she usually enjoys, but it’s her first on-court practice in a long time. A real one, too, not just one where she hits a few balls but doesn’t break a sweat.

She’s miserable.

She doesn’t know if she can do this. How the hell did she lose so much core strength and stability?

“You want to practice some volleys after this?” David asks her. He’s casually standing off to the side of the court with his arms over his chest, not breaking a sweat, and she wants to punch the smile off his face. “Or do some serve practice? Maybe both?”

“Both,” Emma says through gritted teeth. “Let’s do both.”

“Are you sure you’re not pushing yourself too hard?”

“I had a baby, David. I’m not a breakable person. I’m a tennis player. I can play tennis.”

“Are you sure because – ”

“I can do it,” Emma mumbles, running right off the ropes to get to her water bottle, gulping it down. “I can do it.”

Practice lasts for another hour, and though David asks her if she wants to make the short walk to the Wimbledon grounds, she refuses. She doesn’t want to go there today or at any other time over the next two weeks. No one even knows she’s here, and she wants to keep it that way. She’s only here because Killian’s been in England for a month, and though she’s used to the long separations, things are different now.

Much more complicated and busier and separations are more difficult than they were before because of Olivia.

She and David part ways, and Emma gets in Killian’s car and drives back to his house. David can take a cab or ride back with Killian in one of the tournament cars, so she doesn’t feel too guilty about taking his mode of transportation, especially since she needs to get back to the house and collapse onto the couch without David seeing.

He cannot see that he just killed her in practice, especially since she has to get up and do it again tomorrow.

Once she gets to the house, she presses the code into the gate’s keypad, it opens, and she parks in front of the door before walking inside the house. The entryway is clean and airy, a fresh flower arrangement sitting on the table in the foyer, but after that, the house begins to fall apart. Clothes liter the back of chairs and the couches. Tennis shoes are piled against the wall, racket bags next to them, and then when Emma rounds the corner into the living room, the real disaster area begins.

Toys everywhere. Baby furniture accompanying it, and all over the coffee table and the couch is folded laundry of the tiniest clothes Emma has ever seen.

At least they’re folded today.

“David?” Mary Margaret calls from what Emma thinks is the kitchen. Could also be the sunroom that leads to the garden if the kitchen doors are open. “Emma?”

“Just Emma,” Emma calls back as she picks up a stack of Olivia’s clothes to take up to the nursery and put away. Mary Margaret comes around the corner and pokes her head in the room. “David went to the grounds, but I wanted to come home and shower.”

“How did practice feel?”

“Great,” Emma lies. “Just great. Is Olivia asleep?”

“I put her down about twenty minutes ago.”

Emma nods and collects a few more clothes before stepping away from the coffee table and moving over to the stairs. She hesitates, words on the tip of her tongue, but instead of speaking, she bites it instead. “Give me awhile to shower and get changed, and I’ll be down to watch some of the matches and eat while I pump, okay?”

“Yeah, hon, that’s fine.” Mary Margaret smiles at her, soft and reassuring, but Emma doesn’t feel reassured at all. “I was going to grill some chicken. Is that okay with you?”

“That’s perfect, Marg.”

Emma walks up the stairs, every third step creaking beneath her feet, and on her way to the bedroom, she stops off in the nursery and puts Olivia’s clothes on the dresser. She doesn’t want to wake her when she’s so hard to put down during the day, so she’ll say hi to her later. Quietly, she walks down the hallway toward her bedroom, which is as much of a mess as the rest of the house, and instead of immediately jumping in the shower, Emma picks up all the stray clothes and blankets and stuffs them into a laundry bin. If she doesn’t do it now, Killian will do it later and moan about how all the people living in his house are messes.

She just doesn’t want to hear about that today.

After she’s made the room look like less of a disaster area, Emma heads into the bathroom and turns the shower on. She’s careful to avoid the mirror as she gets undressed, and she turns off the vanity lights before she steps inside the tiled shower. The sweat that’s stuck to her skin slowly starts to melt away, the warm water sweet relief to her muscles, and she goes through her entire routine without looking down. She stares straight ahead and pretends her body isn’t in agony.

She was active every day of her pregnancy. She continued to play tennis and go to the gym. She was nearly constantly on the move, not letting anything slow her down. She felt like with all of that, she’d pop right back to normal a few weeks after giving birth.

It’s three months later, and her body still doesn’t feel like her own.

Her legs are fatigued, her core strength is totally gone, her boobs are swollen from breastfeeding which is a whole other pain in the ass (or the boob, technically), and when she looks at herself, she’s not sure who she sees anymore.

Certainly not the athlete she’s trained her entire life to be.

And Emma knows that whole bouncing back thing after birth is patriarchal bullshit, and she told herself she wouldn’t worry about it. She told herself she would be proud that her body gave her Olivia, someone Emma never thought she’d have, but she’s fallen into the trick of worrying about how her body looks, about how it works. Her body is her career, and the one she’s living in isn’t going to help her win any tournaments when she goes back to the tour.

Emma feels a tear escape from her eye, but she quickly wipes it away and stuffs all those thoughts down. She’s just tired. It’s been a hard day, and she needs to eat and drink some coffee. Once the conditioner is rinsed out of her hair and the body wash is nothing but suds on the floor, Emma wraps herself in a towel and leaves the bathroom. She grabs a new pair of leggings and a sweater out of the closet and doesn’t give herself time to think about how they fit before she’s jogging down the stairs and fixing herself a mug of coffee and grabbing the devil breast pump.

Caffeine. She desperately needs caffeine.

The tournament is on the small television in the kitchen, and Emma watches as they show some highlights from the matches today. Killian won’t be on until later, and she knows he’s nervous. This is his home tournament, and the pressure on him is always insane. Considering he’s only had three tournaments back since he fractured his wrist, the pressure is even higher. He’s spent the last week alone doing constant press, and Emma only slightly understands. America doesn’t put as much pressure on Emma, probably because of the ridiculous amount of large tournaments there, and they’re more focused on the mediocre male players than their array of great female players.

Stupid, sexist bullshit.

Emma sips on her coffee as her eyes scan over the scores. No big upsets today, which is a little surprising, but those can still come later.

“Do you want salad with our chicken?”

Emma jumps at Mary Margaret’s voice and spills some of her coffee. “Shit,” Emma mumbles, grabbing a rag from the counter and dabbing at it until the countertop turns back to white. “Uh, yeah, salad sounds good. I can make it.”

“You okay there?”

“Yeah,” she lies, “I’m fine. You startled me, but I’m fine. What kind of salad do you want? I know you don’t like fruit in yours, but I do.”

“Does that mean you’re putting fruit in yours?”

  
  
Emma shrugs. “I’ll make two.”

“Good.” Mary Margaret pauses, and Emma thinks she’s about to go back outside to the deck until she speaks. “Are you sure you’re okay, Emma? You’ve been nervy since we flew here.”

Emma forces a smile, careful not to make it too bright. “I’m fine. I’m just…it’s a lot, you know? I’ve got no clue what I’m doing when it comes to Olivia, and I’m feeling the pre…never mind. It’s nothing. I’m fine. Just new mom stuff.”

Emma, even with all her practice, is not the best liar, but thankfully Mary Margaret will believe most anything Emma says if she includes Olivia in it. The kid is Marg’s sweet spot, and Emma can’t blame her. Olivia is hers too.

“If you say so,” Mary Margaret says with narrowed eyes. “I’m going to finish cooking. You make those salads.”

“Will do.”

-/-

“That’s your dad,” Emma whispers to Olivia later that afternoon when Killian’s match is on. “Do you see him? I think he looks handsome in all that white, but he hates it. What do you think?”

Olivia obviously doesn’t say anything back, but she makes a gurgling noise and then squirms until Emma cradles her against her chest and starts to feed her. It’s been their routine as of late, and if Emma has to sit and watch a match go on for several hours, she might as well get some feeding done while she does that. It’s probably a good thing she got distracted from pumping earlier by lunch.

What a glamorous life.

“He’s very good at what he does, you know?” Emma continues. “Could work on his footwork, but he’s good. The best sometimes, and if he gets to being a little cocky, he’ll tell you he’s the pride of Britain. That’s only because they don’t know about you.”

Olivia looks up at her with those big green eyes, and in moments like these, Emma doesn’t think this is all so bad, that she’s all so bad at it. She’s kept this baby alive for three months, kept her happy too. What’s to say she can’t keep doing that while also training every day?

The ache in her entire body says that, but hopefully, that’ll go away.

“Bloody brilliant,” Emma whispers in a mockery of Killian’s accent as he hits a forehand down the line on match point.

-/-

Emma’s pep talk to herself lasts about thirty-five hours before it all comes tumbling down because she gets out of breath during a run that used to be easy for her. Killian is jogging with her, his speed the same as it always is, and she curses him as she tries to catch up as they run through backroads in his neighborhood. When he starts to slow down for her, that only makes her run faster.

That is a mistake because her sides are now killing her.

This run is killing her.

“Do you need to stop, love?” he asks, barely out of breath.

“No, we can keep going. Don’t tire yourself out before your match.”

He slaps her ass and starts running backwards. An actual bastard. “Never. You sure you don’t want to come with me today? You can sit in a suite. No one will see you.”

“No, I’m fine. The TV works just fine.” She puts on her most convincing smile. “I can see your ass in high definition.”

Killian laughs and winks, still running backwards. “You a fan of that?”

“You know it. Turn around so I can enjoy it here too.”

“As you wish, my love.”

It is a good ass. But mostly she doesn’t want him to see how much she’s struggling to keep up.

-/-

Someone learns Emma is in England the day of Killian’s quarterfinal match. Photographers and a few journalists she recognizes show up at the courts where she’s practicing. She tries not to pay them any attention as David feeds her forehands she keeps hitting out, but all she can think about it the pictures and videos and nasty articles that will be written.

For a long time, it was all about how she should give up on her career, about how it was over for her. Then it was about who her kid’s dad is. That’s still the main question, speculation going everywhere, but Emma won’t tell. She can’t. Not right now. Her private life is private, and if this is what it’s like when she practices, she can’t imagine what it’ll be like when she’s back in tournaments and has to do press.

She knows the tennis world is a small circle, that only a few things really reach mainstream media, but when you’re in the circle, it can feel like the biggest damn thing in the world.

When she misses another forehand and a camera flashes, she knows she’s not ready to come back into the spotlight.

-/-

Killian wins Wimbledon, and Emma sobs on the couch. They’re tears of happiness, she promises. But it’s more crying than she’s done in a long time, probably since she gave birth actually, and she knows a lot of it is the hormones.

But she’s also really fucking proud of Killian.

The smile on his face is infectious. He’s beaming, his smile never fading even when he talks, and she can’t wait to hug him.

He fucking did it.

And it means a lot more than just winning a major and getting a shiny trophy and a paycheck. His ranking will be back in the top three, he’ll get deals with sponsors, he’ll make his home country proud.

He’ll have that satisfaction of having won the trophy that’s the most important to him even if he’ll be irritated by all the white clothes he’s still going to have to wear.

He’ll have the satisfaction of proving to himself that a wrist injury and age aren’t going to keep him down.

“I love you,” she whispers to the TV as he lifts the golden pineapple topped trophy in the air. “So much.”

Olivia stirs next to Emma. She was her watching mate as David and Mary Margaret went to watch in the stadium, and Olivia fell asleep ten minutes into the match. “I love you too, kid,” she tells Olivia, reaching over so Olivia can wrap her hand around Emma’s finger. “I promise I do.”

That night, Killian sneaks home for under an hour to change into a suit and get ready to go to the Champions’ Ball. He looks beyond handsome, the beaming smile still painted on his face, and he tries to convince Emma to put on a nice dress and come with him as his date. She can’t for about a million and two reasons that he can’t see in his euphoric state, so she puts him down gently and says there’s just no way she could find a gown in time. She didn’t exactly pack anything like that.

“You sure?” he asks, fixing his hair once more.

“Yeah, I’m sorry.” Emma steps up to him and straightens his bowtie before pressing up on her toes to kiss him. “Next time you win, I’ll come with you.”

He arches his brow. “Or when you win, I can come with you.”

“That also works.”

“I’m holding you to this promise, Swan,” he whispers into her ear before running his lips across her jawline. Fuck, that feels good. Like, really, really good, and she allows herself to get lost in it, in him, for a few minutes as the kisses dip lower and lower and lower. Now isn’t the time or the place, especially when he’s already dressed and has a place to be, but she wants it, wants him.

Killian can be a little late.

This is more important than some damn gala.

She feels good for the first time in a long time, and, well, it’s more than a little nice to have that connection with him again.

“I fully plan on taking you to this gala with me next year,” Killian says as he quickly puts his tux back on. It’s never going to look as good as it did before, but from where Emma is sitting, it’s never looked better.

“You that confident you’re going to win again? Not a lot of people win twice in a row. Or twice at all.”

“No,” Killian sighs, tucking in his shirt, “I’m confident you, my love, are going to win.”

Emma rolls her eyes and looks away from him. “Oh, come on, babe. Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Hey, look at me, Emma.” She doesn’t, but she does feel the mattress dip when he sits down and reaches for her hand. She still doesn’t look, but she laces her fingers with his. “You are so full of talent. You’re bloody brilliant, actually. And I know the conditioning isn’t there. I know you don’t feel strong anymore, but you are, I promise. You had a baby, our baby, and that took a strength I will never understand.”

Emma finally turns and looks at him, and she hates that she does it at the exact moment a tear starts rolling down her cheek. She wasn’t expecting this tonight, not in front of him, not when everything was just so good.

“Next year at this time,” Killian continues, wiping away the tear with his free hand, “you’ll be kicking my ass on runs. You won’t miss regulatory forehands. You’ll be just as strong, if not stronger, as you were before Olivia. I promise.”

“How do you know that?”

Killian shrugs. “Because in all the time I’ve known you, I’ve yet to see you fail.”

“You need to get your eyes checked then.”

“Hey,” he laughs, kissing her forehead, “don’t turn my emotional monologues into jokes, Swan.”

“You know it’s what I do best.” She squeezes his hand. “But thank you for saying that. I don’t…it’s been…I – ”

“I know, I know. It’s okay for you to not have it together all the time. You don’t have to pretend for me or Olivia. You know that, right? I certainly don’t hold back from cursing and getting frustrated from time to time. Why should you?”

Emma nods and squeezes his hand again before pushing him off the bed. He’s right. Killian, for as much as he holds back, does have a bit of a dramatic flair when things aren’t going his way. She does too.

“I do know that now,” Emma tells him, still pushing him. “Now, go, you have people waiting for you.”

“No one more important than you.”

  
  
“What about Olivia?”

“Now, Swan, don’t put me in that kind of position. You know I could never choose between my women.”

“Go,” Emma laughs, falling back in bed. “I can’t believe you fucking won Wimbledon three tournaments back.”

Killian half shrugs. “I’m a hell of an athlete. I’ll save you a dance for when I get back.”

“Absolutely.”

-/-

Emma gets up and runs the next morning.

And the next.

And, obviously, the day after that.

It’s horrible, and she hates it. But she does it anyway. She does it until she enjoys it, until the endorphins start flowing and the pain becomes a weird pleasure. It reminds her of how it used to be, of how much she loved this even when she hated it, and it feels good to push back against her body and her hormones and the demons in her mind.

Those are often the hardest thing to push back, especially lately, but little by little it happens.

Killian doing so well on tour might be part of it. Emma is a competitor at heart. She likes to win, to be the best, to be no one’s second fiddle, so she pushes herself that little bit harder in training and at practice. She tries not to eat too much of her secret stashed icing and goes for fruits and vegetables and lean meats even when she’d rather starve than eat spinach again, and when Killian is around, it helps keep her on track. When he’s not and she’s parenting by herself, the icing sees her more often than not.

It’s a balance, especially with Olivia, but Emma thinks she’s figuring it out.

Five months ago, she never would have expected that.

“Madrid.”

Killian adjusts Olivia in his arms, pushing little bits of her hair back as she grabs at his hair and yanks. Hard. He barely hides the grimace. “What about Madrid?”

“That’s where I want to make my comeback. Madrid. It’s perfect. It gives me four more months to get ready, and I can play the warm-up tournaments before the Open. We can take Livvie with us all through Europe so that no one has to come back to America between everything. It’s perfect.” Emma walks up to him and wraps her arms around his and Olivia’s necks, holding them close. “Don’t you think that’s perfect?”

“I don’t know. I think we’ll have to ask Miss Olivia how she feels about celebrating her first birthday in Spain. It might be a hardship for her.”

“Nah,” Emma laughs, kissing Olivia’s cheek and making her giggle. “I think she’ll be thrilled. It’ll be the major start of her having two crazy people for parents. I think she’s going to love being on the tour. She’s already got all the outfits for it.”

“And that’s obviously the most important part.”

“It definitely is.”

-/-

The day Emma has Mary Margaret put her on the entry list to play Madrid, she avoids her phone. She doesn’t check her messages or emails. She definitely doesn’t check any social media. Her head has been a lot better not seeing what think pieces people write about her or Killian or any of their friends, and since she knows those will start again now, she doesn’t want to see them.

She is coming back on her terms.

For herself, for Killian, for Olivia.

On the days where it hurts, where she hates the game instead of loving it, she wonders if it’ll be a mistake to go back. She doesn’t know how she’s going to balance being a mom and a player when she’s on the road and not always in the same city or even country as Killian, but she’s got to do it. Her daughter deserves to see that.

Emma deserves to see it for herself.

And when spring rolls around, Emma’s body still looks different than it did before Olivia. There are marks on her body, parts that aren’t as toned and likely never will be, and while she might have lost a step in one area, she’s gained steps in others. So as she laces up her shoes and fixes her braid to step back on the court for the first real time in over a year, she takes a deep breath and imagines the two people sitting in a hotel room ready to watch her, cheering for every win and mourning every loss.

Those are the only two opinions that matter.

“Miss Swan,” someone says from the other side of the locker room, “we’re ready for you.”

Emma looks up and smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm over on Tumblr at [let-it-raines](https://let-it-raines.tumblr.com/) 🎾


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